


Strength in numbers

by radiboyn



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: American Sign Language, Autistic Meltdown, Autistic Spencer Reid, Hurt/Comfort, I take that back. mostly non-verbal Reid, Migraine, Occasionally non-verbal Reid, Self-Injurious Stimming, Sensory Processing Disorder, Stimming, Vomiting, aac
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-13 08:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13566408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiboyn/pseuds/radiboyn
Summary: The many times Reid has a meltdown in front of his team.





	1. 2005

The first time it happens, he’s in the bullpen. 

Derek is the first to notice. He’d been able to tell something was off from the moment Reid arrived half an hour late, already looking agitated and unbalanced. 

From his position at the coffee machine, he notices the young genius chewing the end of his pen, a habit he knows Reid hates in other people. Watching more closely, he notices Reid curling into himself slightly when the two people sat at the desks either side of him – desk agents, neither of them part of their team – start a heated conversation about last night’s soccer. He watches Reid reach up to cup his left hand over his left ear, fingertips massaging his temple almost subconsciously as he continues trying to focus on his work. 

“Spencer,” Derek calls, making his way over to Reid’s desk to check on him, “everything okay?”

Spencer doesn’t seem to even register Derek’s voice, eyebrows knitted as he stares at his case file. 

“Hey, Spencer?” Derek repeats, standing next to his chair, “pretty boy?”

Reid finally looks up, and Derek doesn’t miss the way he squints up at him, like the lights are hurting his eyes. “Hm?”

“Is everything alright?” Derek repeats, concern lining his features. “You seem a little stressed over here.”

“Oh,” Reid mumbles, swallowing awkwardly like he’s trying to find some words to say, “I- uh. I’m fine. S’loud in here.”

Derek raises his eyebrows at that. Sure, there’s the chatter of desk agents and the general sounds that come with being in a community workplace, but he wouldn’t have said it was particularly loud. 

“Do you wanna take a coffee break with me?” Derek asks, holding out his steaming cup. 

“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary,” Reid rushes to decline his offer, eyes flicking over Derek’s shoulder before landing back on him. 

“Well, if you change your mind, just come get me.” And with that, Derek returns to his own desk.

His desk faces away from Reid’s, his back angled towards the younger agent. He works on updating case files for a half hour and almost forgets about Reid’s strange behaviour. Distantly, he registers a muted but persistent high-pitched humming coming from somewhere behind him. It takes him a few moments to realize that it’s not a malfunctioning computer or faulty light, but a person – _Reid_. He swizzles his chair around and spots the young genius curled up in his seat, eyes squeezed shut, hands cupped over his ears but not pressing down. 

Derek is on his feet in an instant, crossing the small distance quickly. Nobody else seems to have noticed Reid struggling – he’s not surprised, really, because nobody else in the bullpen besides the two of them are part of the BAU team. Hotch and Gideon both sit in their offices above the ground space, oblivious. 

“Pretty boy, what’s going on?” Derek asks quietly, crouching down in front of the genius’ chair. 

Spencer whines in response, turning his head away from Derek’s voice like it hurts to listen to. Derek’s eyebrows knit together in concern, confusion pushing through. 

Derek is about to repeat the question when two agents burst through the bullpen doors, one following behind the other. They’re in the middle of a heated argument, they’re _shouting_ , and it pushes Reid over the edge. 

Reid’s right palm clamps firmly over his right ear, pressing down painfully hard. His left forearm flies to his mouth and he bites down hard, a strangled noise escaping from his throat. His eyes stay squeezed shut as he hunches over completely, his nose nearly touching his knees. 

Derek is immediately at a loss for what to do. He briefly wonders if he should pull Reid’s arm from his mouth, because that has to be hurting, but he knows how Spencer is with touch and he doesn’t want to add it to the list of things Spencer is dealing with right at this moment. 

“Hotch!” he calls in the direction of Hotch’s office, and then towards Gideon’s. Reid forces out an even more pained sounding whine at the loud noise. “Hotch, Gideon! Get down here!”

He sees both the senior agents lift their heads at his calls, both wearing equally concerned expressions, and then they stand up in unison, emerging from their offices. People are staring, but Derek doesn’t notice, eyes fixed worriedly on Reid. 

Hotch takes one look at Reid and jumps into action.

“Everybody out,” he commands sternly, loudly. “Outside, now.”

The desk agents immediately stand to leave, filing out of the main doors quickly and quietly, leaving the bullpen empty apart from the four.

“Spencer, hey,” Gideon says gently, kneeling in front of Reid’s chair. “Listen to me. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Reid replies with a garbled moan that tears at Derek’s heart, and then a second cry that practically screams _make it stop_. He’s drawing blood from his arm now, and Derek winces, looking away.

“I know. It’s okay, it’ll pass,” Gideon coaches gently, “you’re safe. It’s just Morgan, Hotch and us. It’s okay.”

Hotch approaches them, and Derek notices he’s shut all the windows, blocking out the sounds of traffic coming in from outside. Hotch stands behind Reid’s chair and reaches down to firmly place his own palms over Reid’s ears, his right hand covering Reid’s. 

Reid struggles against the touch for a few moments, twisting and turning uncomfortably before his body falls into a rocking motion, his torso moving back and forth quickly. 

“Shouldn’t we move his arm?” Derek asks, his voice tight. “He’s hurting himself.”

“He’ll stop when he’s ready,” Gideon replies evenly. “If we restrain him, he won’t calm down.”

To Derek, it doesn’t look like Reid is ever going to be ready to stop. But, after five tense minutes of rocking and whimpering and biting, Reid’s movements slow down to an eventual stop, his torso stilling and his arm falling from his mouth, wet and bruised and bleeding slightly. 

They let him sit in silence for a few more minutes, Hotch’s hands still covering Reid’s ears, the younger agent’s eyes cast down as his head droops against his chest, exhausted. After a moment, Gideon slowly puts a still hand into Reid’s line of vision, holding it there until Reid hesitantly looks up, his eyes focusing somewhere above Gideon’s left eyebrow. 

“Ready?” Gideon asks, though it’s so quiet Morgan thinks Gideon must know Reid can’t hear it. Reid must make some sort of signal that Morgan misses – or maybe the lack of objection is enough – because Gideon nods at Hotch, who gently takes his hands away from Reid’s head.

Reid seems to deflate, his chin dropping back against his chest tiredly. For a few moments, there is absolute silence across the bullpen, save for the sound of Reid’s slowly evening heavy breathing. Morgan almost isn’t sure if Reid’s fallen asleep or not, until Reid finally looks up, squinting down at Gideon in the light. 

“Better?” Gideon asks, and Reid nods, averting his eyes. 

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Hotch announces quietly. Morgan stands back, feeling helpless and confused in equal measures as Hotch disappears into his office and returns back with a green plastic box. 

Hotch crouches down next to Gideon, opening the box on the floor and pulling out some antiseptic wipes and a bandage. Reid wordlessly offers his arm to Hotch, the first lucid move he’s made since the meltdown.

“This might hurt,” Gideon warns as Hotch tears open one of the wipes. As soon as it makes contact with Reid’s broken skin, Reid lets out a high pitched squeak, his unoccupied right hand flapping frantically at shoulder height. 

“Almost done, Reid,” Hotch reassures in a voice Derek silently knows is usually reserved for comforting Jack. He wraps a stark white bandage around the wound and tapes it off with a wide skin-coloured bandaid. 

Reid takes his arm back, letting it drop down against his thighs. After a moment, his right hand forms a fist against his chest and he moves it in two clockwise circles.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Hotch states, and Morgan realizes it must have been sign language. He absently wonders if Hotch or Gideon or both are fluent, or if they just know as much as Reid has told them.

Reid shakes his head, bringing his right fingertips to touch his lips before moving his hand away from his mouth until it ends palm down a small distance in front of his chest.

“You’re not bad,” Gideon says with a tone that radiates _don’t be silly_. “You can’t help getting overwhelmed. You dealt with it until you couldn’t anymore. We understand.”

Reid doesn’t make any more attempts to sign again after that. The four remain in silence, Gideon kneeling, Hotch crouching, Morgan stood off to the side, arms crossed over his chest. After a minute, Hotch pushes himself to standing, turning towards Morgan. 

“Morgan, could you find the other agents and tell them to come back to work in five minutes? Meet me in my office when you’re done.”

Morgan nods, grateful to have something to do with himself after standing helplessly at the side for the duration of the events. It takes a while for him to find the other agents. They’re sitting in the bureau cafeteria, and Morgan passes on Hotch’s message before turning around and taking the elevator back up to the right floor.

When he re-enters the bullpen, the other three agents have gone. He knows Reid is probably with Gideon in his office. He makes his way up the steps onto the balcony and knocks on Hotch’s office door, waiting for the _‘come in’_ before he opens it. 

“Morgan, sit down,” Hotch gestures towards the seat in front of his desk. Morgan does so, slightly awkwardly.

Hotch waits for Morgan to speak first. Morgan waits for some sort of explanation, but when none comes, he rubs his palms against his trousers and sighs. “Hotch, what the hell _was_ that?”

“What you just witnessed was an autistic meltdown,” Hotch says simply.

“He’s autistic?” Morgan raises his eyebrows. “I know we all suspected, but… I didn’t think he’d actually been diagnosed.”

“Gideon and I knew before he joined the BAU,” Hotch confirms, “which is why we knew what to do.”

“Have you seen this happen before?” Morgan asks. 

“Not personally, no. But I know Jason has. Reid asked him to tell me what to expect and what to do should something like this occur.”

Morgan swipes a hand across his face, processing the new information. Everything suddenly makes sense, from the way he’s seen Reid act on cases to the way he’d been behaving all morning. 

“He’s not comfortable with the others knowing,” Hotch informs him, a note of warning in his voice.

“I get that,” Morgan says truthfully. “They’re gonna find out sometime, though. What if something like this happens in the field?”

“Then we deal with it when it happens,” Hotch says simply. “Reid has proven himself time and time again to be a valuable member of our team. If we have to make accommodations for him in the field then that’s what we’ll do.”

Morgan nods. Through the window, he sees the other agents begin to file in. His eyes fall on Reid’s desk, unoccupied, and all he knows now is that he will do anything he can to protect his little brother. 

Next door, he hears Gideon’s warm laugh, and thinks Reid might just be getting back to himself again.

It’s enough for him.


	2. 2006 - 01.18

The second time it happens, he’s with Lila Archer.

As soon as Gideon arrives, he knows what’s happening. Spencer is stood at the side of the pool, soaked through. His hands are raised up against his chest, curled up under his chin and shaking with what could be cold, or overload, or, most probably, both. He’s staring wide-eyed at Lila, his expression showing painfully clearly that he’s about to cry.

Lila, on the other hand, isn’t so sure about what’s going on. She’s wrapped in a robe, a few steps away from Spencer, her hands flying. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she cries, her tone accusatory. “What are you, some sort of freak?” 

Spencer flinches away at the word, shaking his head quickly, his hands twisting into knots. “M’not,” he forces out, eyes finding Gideon desperately as he repeats himself. _“M’not.”_

Gideon knows it’s time to intervene. He takes a few steps forward and makes his presence known, placing himself between Reid and Lila and putting a hand out. “That’s enough,” he says sternly, “Miss Archer, please follow me inside. You too, Spencer.”

Gideon turns on his heel, unsure as to whether either of them will actually follow him. Over his shoulder, he hears light footsteps that he deduces must belong to Lila, but he doesn’t hear the heavier, less coordinated footsteps he’d expect to hear from Reid following behind. Sure enough, when he opens the door and steps aside to let Lila past, Reid is still fixed to one spot, his posture curled in on itself. 

“I came inside before and expected him to follow me, but he just stood there,” Lila begins to explain to Gideon without prompt. “I went back out to talk to him, tried to touch him to see if he’d literally frozen or something and he pushed me!” 

Gideon winces. He knows Spencer never _intends_ to be violent towards another, but an overloaded and defensive mind will lash out at anyone who could pose a perceived threat. 

“Spencer… sometimes he deals with things differently,” Gideon says, cryptically, by way of explanation. He glances through the extensive glass doors and sees Reid still stood in the same position, his eyes closed, rocking only slightly on the balls of his feet. When he looks closer, he notices Reid is muttering to himself, his lips moving far too quickly for Gideon to attempt to read from a distance. 

“I need to make sure he’s alright,” Gideon says as he turns back to Lila. “Stay inside until another agent arrives.”

“Whatever,” Lila mumbles, walking away to another room. Gideon shakes his head at her back.

Making his way back outside, Gideon tries to formulate some sort of plan. The combination of _sodden clothes_ and _difficult emotional situation_ means that the tentative balance of calm Spencer is maintaining right now is a fragile one, and a wrong move in any direction could send him over the edge and tumbling towards the rocks. He could wait until Hotch or Morgan or someone else arrives, but they’re busy arresting the creep taking pictures from the bushes, and it could be any length of time before one of them decides to make the trip back to Lila’s house. So, he decides, he’ll have to handle this alone.

“Spencer,” he calls as he approaches so as not to startle the younger man. “It’s me.”

Spencer’s eyes open at the words, their gaze focusing on the ground to the right of Gideon’s feet. He nods to show he’s acknowledged Gideon’s presence. 

“Why don’t you come inside and I’ll find you some dry clothes, huh? How’s that sound?” Gideon suggests, not fazed by the lack of eye contact. 

Spencer doesn’t respond, which Gideon knows by now means Spencer doesn’t want to do what he’s suggested. Gideon tries something else. 

“Do you want me to help you out of your wet clothes here, before we move?” he asks, looking to Spencer’s face for some sort of reaction.

Spencer’s expression tightens, his body tensing defensively. _Definitely the clothes causing the trouble, then,_ Gideon concludes. It makes sense, really. Spencer is bad with certain textures – _tactile defensiveness_ , he’d called it – and the sensation of damp clothing sticking to skin even makes Gideon shudder; he can’t imagine what Spencer must be feeling. 

“Okay, Spencer, I’m gonna take your shirt off here,” Gideon decides, stepping forwards. But Spencer trips over his feet trying to step backwards, shaking his head. 

“No,” he whines, “don’t- no touch, _please_ ,” he begs, trying to position his body so Gideon has no access to him at all. 

“Can you do it for yourself, then?” Gideon asks, vaguely surprised that Spencer is still verbal at this point. He holds his hands up to show he isn’t going to touch Reid without warning. “If you can manage yourself then I’ll step away, but this isn’t going to get any better unless we get you into dry clothes, you know that.”

Spencer nods, taking a few shuddering breaths. After a tense interlude, Spencer’s shaking hands begin to work at his top button. 

The sodden fabric shifts against Reid’s chest, and it’s the final straw.

A strangled cry tears itself from his throat, tears immediately springing to his eyes. A loose fist comes up to hit against his head as he begins sobbing in earnest, tiny whimpers leaving his mouth. 

“Okay, alright,” Gideon springs into action, moving forward again. “Don’t hit, please,” he says firmly, but Spencer can’t seem to stop, the heel of his right hand batting repeatedly against his temple. Gideon is torn between letting it continue in the hopes of it petering off of its own accord, tugging Reid’s clothes off as quickly and painlessly as he can, or restraining Reid’s hands as his hits grow in force and frequency. 

“Gideon?” 

Gideon turns around and spots Hotch coming through the large glass doors, Elle following shortly behind him. 

“Lila said you were out here. What’s going on?” Elle asks, her eyes going wide as she spots Spencer. 

“Meltdown,” he says primarily to Hotch, who nods knowingly, “wet clothes.”

Spencer lets out a particularly pained sounding whine. 

“Meltdown? What?” Elle repeats.

“Either help or stay inside with Lila. He doesn’t need an audience,” Gideon says somewhat harshly, but Elle takes it in her stride.

“What can I do?” she asks. 

Hotch looks around, turning on the spot. “Did he bring his bag?”

“I’ve never seen him without it,” Elle says, “I’ll go check inside.”

Elle walks away, disappearing inside the house. Hotch turns to look at Spencer before moving to stand next to Gideon, arms crossed against his chest. 

“Lila called him a freak,” Gideon mutters, quiet enough that Spencer probably won’t hear. Hotch’s jaw tightens; he knows Spencer’s history with the word. 

“Got it!” a voice from behind them calls, and the two agents turn to see Elle striding purposefully towards them, Spencer’s messenger bag clutched against her chest. “Jeez, the hell does he keep in here, a pile of bricks?”

Gideon takes the bag from Elle’s arms before setting it down on the ground in front of him and crouching down to unbuckle the two clasps on the front. He flips the top open, revealing an assortment of brightly coloured gadgets and toys, as well as a black silk bag pressed neatly against the left hand side of the bag and, from what Elle can see, a thick book with ‘AAC’ printed on the front. 

Gideon digs around inside for a moment before he finds what he’s looking for. He passes a small, spiky ball up to Hotch before re-covering the contents of the bag, foregoing the buckles. 

Hotch takes initiative. “Spencer,” he says, voice loud enough to be heard without sounding threatening. “Spencer, stop hitting. Take this,” he commands firmly, using gentle touch to redirect Spencer’s clenched fists until he’s holding the ball between both of them. Slowly, his fingers uncurl as he begins to roll the object between his palms until his sobs taper off and he’s bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. 

Attention successfully redirected, Hotch turns back to Gideon and Elle, the latter of whom is stood with a single raised eyebrow, her expression questioning. 

“Run inside and see if Lila has any spare loose-fitting clothes Reid can borrow,” Hotch murmurs to Elle, who turns on her heel without a word. Gideon and Hotch wait in a still silence until she returns ten minutes later, her arms this time full with what appears to be grey sweats, a khaki green t-shirt and a grey-brown hoodie, as well as a large, folded bath towel. 

This time, the three of them manage to remove Spencer’s shirt, shoes and socks without incident. Spencer even lets Gideon towel-dry his arms and torso with minimal protest, and slips the t-shirt and hoodie over his head without prompt. After a pause, Spencer hands the ball back to Hotch so he can unzip and remove his soaked trousers, not noticing when Elle snorts and turns her back, giving him some privacy. 

“Good,” Gideon says shortly after, to let Elle know she can turn back around. Spencer looks like he might say something, but clamps his mouth shut, blushing. 

“Better?” Elle asks. Spencer looks up momentarily, nodding mutely.

Gideon and Hotch breathe a collective sigh of relief, visibly re-entering case-mode as they remember Lila. 

Reid seems to remember too, because his head suddenly snaps up, eyes looking momentarily more focused before they fill with sorrow. He signs something quickly towards Gideon, from which Hotch can only pick up “tell” and the beginning of a rapidly fingerspelt name. 

“You want to tell her about Michael?” Gideon asks, failing to hide his confusion, but Spencer shakes his head, raising both hands and swinging them away from himself like he’s brushing something in front of him away. _Finished_.

“You already told her?” Hotch fills in, and Reid nods sadly. 

“You did good, kid,” Gideon reassures, forming a sad smile. He picks up Reid’s bag and hands it to the younger agent, who drapes it over his shoulder and re-fastens the buckles on the front with fumbling fingers before reaching down to pick up his still-dripping shoes and socks. 

“Hey Spence? Why don’t we drive back to the precinct, see if we can’t get some good coffee from somewhere?” Elle pipes up, sensing Gideon and Hotch’s reluctance to keep Lila waiting any longer. Spencer looks to Hotch as if he’s asking permission, and nods towards Elle when Hotch says “go”. 

Spencer leaves, barefoot, and Elle makes to follow, but is stopped by a hand on her upper arm. 

“Thank you,” Hotch murmurs quietly, “We’ll talk later.”

Elle laughs at that. “You bet we will.”


	3. 2007 - 02.15

Following the _Tobias incident_ , Gideon, Hotch and Morgan had expected the fallout to be a particularly violent, unstoppable meltdown. Reid had had all his limits pushed, had been forced to endure assaults on every sense he has, all the while trying his best to keep on the ball and be a tool in his own rescue, transferring information to the team in hidden glances and subtle clues. When they finally find him, they’re ready for sobbing, hitting and resistance.

They had not expected this. 

Hotch is the first to see it, when they’re in the back of the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and Reid is being compliant with the medics. There’s no fighting or flinching away from the unexpected textures and sensations in the ambulance, no turning away so the medics can’t touch him or check his injuries. At first, Hotch thinks it might be the relieved exhaustion following being rescued from torture, but there’s something about Reid’s eyes that tells him otherwise. The look there isn’t one of quiet, tired resignation like he’d expected. Instead, Reid’s eyes are glazed over and unfocused, their glassy quality making him look like a computer unplugged. 

“Dr. Reid, can you tell me where the most pain is?” the medic in the back with them asks, positioning herself in front of Spencer’s line of sight. Reid doesn’t reply, showing no recognition that he’s been asked a question. “Dr. Reid?” the medic repeats, concerned.

“He goes non-verbal sometimes,” Hotch supplies, “he’s experienced acute trauma in the past twenty-four hours; this sort of thing is expected.”

The medic nods knowingly, reading between the lines with what Hotch is saying. “Does he get shutdowns often?” she enquires casually, flipping through the pages of medical notes and filling in a new section of information with black ballpoint pen. 

“Not really. It’s mostly meltdowns, which are almost always followed by a non-verbal stretch lasting anywhere between half an hour and a few days, but he has an AAC book and knows sign,” Hotch informs her. He glances back at Reid on the crisp white sheets, still unresponsive. “I’ve never seen him like this,” he admits quietly.

The medic smiles warmly at him before looking sympathetically towards Reid. “It’ll pass, just like every meltdown does. For now, he’s on autopilot – his brain’s just taking a backseat for a while to deal with all the input.”

Hotch purses his lips at the reminder of just how much ‘input’ Spencer has had over the past twenty-four hours. The boy – _he’s barely old enough to be anything more than a boy_ – is still staring forward, posture and expression tense like he’s ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. In the stark overhead vehicle lighting, Hotch catches the three tiny circular marks on his inner elbow, slightly inflamed, and knows the fallout is going to be so much more than any of them are equipped to deal with. 

“We’re here,” the medic announces, pulling Hotch from his thoughts. Hotch unclips his lap belt and stands up, moving out of the way so the medic can open the ambulance doors to reveal the team of emergency personnel already waiting for them outside. 

“Alright, Dr. Reid, we’re going to take you into the hospital now,” the medic says clearly, kicking the breaks on the gurney out of the ‘locked’ position. 

Soon after, they’re wheeling Reid through the corridors of a busy hospital, a bustling team of nurses and consultants and registrars surrounding them. Hotch stays close to the bed, gripping the metal side with one hand as they manoeuvre through seemingly endless corridors to a designated unit somewhere, pre-prepared for the agent’s arrival. 

Mid-way, Reid whines quietly, shifting and trying to turn on his side. The sound is so quiet that Hotch isn’t sure he’d heard correctly, but when a nurse quietly shushes him and presses her hand against his shoulder, stopping him from turning, Hotch realizes he hadn’t imagined it. He takes off his suit jacket without really thinking about it and hands it down to Reid, who immediately pulls it over his head, shielding himself from the chaos. 

The nurse reaches down with the intent to pull the jacket away from his head, but the medic from the ambulance swats her hand away. Before the nurse can question it, a man in dark grey scrubs holding a clipboard – _Dr. Taylor_ , Hotch takes from his name badge – gestures to a room on the secluded ward they’ve reached, instructing them to take Spencer in. Hotch turns to follow, but is stopped the doctor.

“Patient and care team only past this point,” he says sternly, and, sensing Aaron’s protest, holds up a hand. “He’s with the best possible people. A nurse will take you to the friends and relatives room up the corridor.”

“He has an autism spectrum disorder,” Aaron pipes up before the nurse can try to usher him away, “he doesn’t handle touch well, he’s been through an incredibly traumatic experience and he won’t communicate with strangers when he’s overwhelmed. I need to be in there with him.”

But the doctor only shakes his head. “This is standard procedure, I’m afraid. Someone will contact you if your presence is needed to help Dr. Reid.” And with that, the doctor disappears behind the swinging double doors, and Hotch finds himself being lead further down the corridor by a nurse with blonde hair and a sickly-sweet smile. 

Hotch takes a seat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs that line the walls of the friends and relatives room. The newspapers and magazines the nurse had offered to him lie untouched on the low table a few feet in front of him as he wipes a tired hand over his face. 

He needs to get in touch with the team. He knows Gideon, Morgan and the others will want to know what’s going on, but his phone is in his suit jacket with Reid. He spends five minutes contemplating finding the nurse and asking her to fetch it for him, and is about to get to his feet when she appears at the door, Morgan and JJ on her heel. 

“Hotch,” JJ breathes when she sees her superior. “We’ve been trying to call but your phone’s ringing out. What happened, is he alright?”

“They took him to a private room, I think. They wouldn’t let me go with him,” Hotch says as he stands, meeting JJ and Morgan by the door. “I gave him my suit jacket with my phone in it. I’m sorry I couldn’t answer.”

Morgan and JJ nod their understanding, their shoulders sagging with exhaustion. 

“Prentiss and Gideon are helping Garcia pack everything up back there,” Morgan says quietly, and Hotch hears the subtle accusation in his voice. Hotch himself hadn’t known whether Gideon would avoid the hospital and the aftermath, or come to be with Reid. He supposes it’s better that Gideon isn’t here; he’d surely be pacing holes in the carpet by now. 

“I’m going to see if I can grab a vending machine coffee. Anyone want anything?” JJ asks. Hotch and Morgan shake their heads in unison before Hotch gestures to the plastic seats, resuming his position and waiting for Morgan to join him as JJ leaves, the sound of her heels getting quieter as she retreats down the corridor. 

Once she’s gone, Morgan turns to Hotch. “How is he really?”

Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. “I’ve never seen him like that. It was like he was completely shut out of the world.”

Morgan raises his eyebrows at the information. “I would have thought this whole thing would have meant…” he trails off, waving a hand vaguely in the air in front of him, and Hotch knows exactly what he’s trying to say. 

The pair sit in a contemplative silence for a few minutes as the conversation lapses, until JJ appears at the door, her expression distressed. “Guys, there’s a lot of shouting. I think it’s Reid.”

Hotch is on his feet immediately, Morgan following quickly. The trio make their way swiftly down the corridor and into the examination room where they’ve got Reid, ignoring the protests of a young male nurse behind them. 

On entering the room, the three are confused to find the bed empty, but following the collective gaze of the hospital staff leads them to an impossibly small, huddled form in the far corner, curled almost entirely under Hotch’s dark grey jacket. 

“What’s going on?” Hotch demands, eyes finding the doctor, who now has the decency to look at least a little abashed. 

“We need to perform a thorough examination, Mr Hotchner.”

“Agent Hotchner,” Aaron corrects dismissively, moving past a nurse and a trolley topped with sterilised examination equipment in order to crouch next to Spencer. 

“Reid, it’s me,” he says quietly. Reid’s hand flies out from under the jacket, feeling for Hotch’s tie, as if searching for confirmation that it really is him. After a moment, Reid makes the sign for _H_ and then moves it forward in something akin to the sign for _‘leader’_ , the two actions forming the sign name they’d decided upon for Hotch last year. “Yes, Hotch. I’m here, it’s okay.”

The next signs Reid throws out one-handedly from under the jacket are _tired – please – want – home – busy – loud_ , which Hotch thinks is a pretty accurate and concise summary for how the young agent must be feeling. He sighs quietly, temporarily blocking out the rest of the people in the room. 

“We can go home once they’ve checked you’re alright to fly,” Hotch assures him. _Tired_ , Reid repeats, pulling the jacket down so it’s no longer covering his face in order to aim a pleading expression in Hotch’s direction. Hotch smiles sadly, sympathetically.

“If you get yourself back on the bed, you can get some rest,” Hotch reasons, holding out a hand for Reid to take. Eventually, the young man does just that, tentatively grasping at Hotch’s hand with the hand that isn’t clutching tightly at the collar of Hotch’s jacket like a safety blanket, pulling himself up on wobbly legs. With gentle guidance, he re-situates himself on the white sheets, settling down without protest. 

Hotch takes position standing at the side of the bed, carding his hand through Reid’s blood-matted hair while the nurses resume their swabbing and cleaning. Reid barely flinches as the doctor anaesthetises the areas around the worst of his wounds before suturing them up with a few stitches. After what seems like an eternity, Reid’s breathing evens out completely as he succumbs to much needed sleep, oblivious to the movements around him. 

In the corner of the room, JJ and Morgan stand silently, watching the interactions between their boss and friend. JJ looks like she wants to say something, but won’t. When Spencer falls into an obvious sleep, Morgan touches his hand to JJ’s lower back for her attention and gestures wordlessly towards the door, turning silently on his heel and holding the door open for JJ as they both leave the room. 

Once they’re in the corridor, JJ turns to Morgan, hospital coffee still in hand. 

“I’m missing something, aren’t I?” she says simply.

Morgan nods. “He doesn’t want people to know, but…” he trails off, looking around as though someone else might hear, “JJ, he’s autistic.”

JJ looks confused. “Yeah, I know,” she says slowly, “I was talking about the sign language thing.”

Now it’s Morgan’s turn to look confused. “You know?” he echoes, “how?”

JJ shrugs. “I’m no profiler, but it’s pretty obvious. He’s been part of the team for almost three years now. I think we’ve all realized. The signing, though? That’s new.”

Morgan shrugs. “First time I saw him have a meltdown, he signed something and Hotch and Gideon knew what he was saying. I guess it’s just his way of talking when everything’s too much.”

“I get that,” JJ says as she looks back at the now closed doors, behind which lies one of her closest friends, one of her _family_. 

“He’ll be okay,” Morgan murmurs quietly, as if reading JJ’s thoughts. “He’s strong and he’s got us. He’ll be okay.”

JJ nods, taking the first sip of the coffee she’d forgotten she was holding. “He’ll be okay,” she repeats, her tone a confident affirmation. 

And, eventually, he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has commented or left kudos thus far! Your kind words mean a heck of a lot. 
> 
> Also, for anyone who knows / uses ASL, I'm aware that the signs I have Reid use in this chapter _probably_ wouldn't be recognizable when signed one-handed from under a jacket, but I'm using a bit of... creative imagination. :D


	4. 2007 - 03.03

Hotch had known since the beginning that the disappearance of Gideon would throw Reid off balance.

It was inevitable. He knew Gideon’s time in the BAU would eventually be cut short; the man had a knack for thinking himself into impossible holes, getting so tangled in his own thoughts that he couldn’t see out. 

Still, Hotch hadn’t expected it to be so soon. 

“I know that we’ve all been wondering what this was all about,” he announces at the beginning of the case briefing. “And I’ve known Jason for many years and I can tell you I have no idea.”

Reid looks crestfallen at the admittance. His eyebrows knit together behind his too-long fringe, and Hotch can tell he’s trying to put the pieces together in his head. 

“But it doesn’t even matter,” Hotch continues, looking at Reid specifically, though the younger man won’t look up. “What matters is we’re here and we’re going to continue.”

And they do. The case isn’t easy, but they manage just fine without Gideon there to help. Hotch almost feels guilty for thinking it, but it’s true nonetheless. 

Reid contributes. He holds his ground, offers statistics and notices details that they couldn’t solve the case without. It’s only in the moments when they’re not entirely case-focused that any of them pick up on the subtle changes- the way Reid bounces subtly in chairs and wiggles his toes as if he’s unable to keep still, as if something is building under his skin that he needs the chance to release. 

The case is over quickly, and it’s barely been 24 hours before they find themselves back on the jet and headed home. 

“Want me to turn off the light?” Hotch asks Morgan quietly as they sit facing each other, most of the jet in darkness as the rest of the team sleeps.

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep,” Morgan admits with a shrug. 

Hotch puts down the case file he’d been working on. “What’s the matter?”

“What’s the matter with you, Hotch?” Morgan deflects back to him. “You’re sitting here doing work when you’d normally take a break. Please don’t tell me it’s about Gideon leaving.”

“You know we made a deal a long time ago not to profile each other,” Hotch reminds him, looking away, trying his hardest to keep his expression neutral. 

“Am I wrong? You know, Hotch, today was a huge, huge victory for all of us. I mean, I never thought I’d say this, but we’re doing just fine without Gideon.”

“We are,” Hotch agrees, “you and I. And the team. But it’s not me, or you, or the team I’m worried about.”

Understanding settles across Morgan’s features. He turns his head to look at Reid, curled up and fast asleep on the sofa behind him. “He’s been fine today, hasn’t he?”

Hotch nods. A few moments of silence pass as they both watch their youngest sleep peacefully. Eventually, Morgan turns back around, settling further down into his seat. 

“He’s gonna be fine, Hotch,” Morgan murmurs. 

“You should sleep,” Hotch reaches up to switch off the last of the overhead lights before Morgan can protest, plunging the pair into darkness. 

Morgan laughs quietly and Hotch can almost hear him shaking his head. “Night, Hotch.”

“Goodnight.”

It only takes a few minutes before Hotch hears Morgan’s breathing even out completely as he slips into sleep. Hotch loosens and pulls off his tie before unbuttoning the top button of his shirt and closing his eyes, finally letting himself drift into a light sleep.  


* * *

  
When he next awakens, it’s still dark, they’re still flying, and Hotch estimates it can only have been a half hour since he drifted off.

He squints, his eyes adjusting to the dim light as he looks around to try to work out what’s woken him. Morgan is still asleep in front of him, as are Prentiss and JJ behind him. And then he spots Reid.

The younger man is awake and sat cross legged on the floor next to the sofa, his fingertips tracing patterns on the carpeted ground. His body language doesn’t read as distressed, but Hotch can’t see his face from where he’s sat, so he stands as quietly as he can, careful not to wake anybody.

“Hey,” Hotch whispers as he approaches Reid. Reid looks up, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

“Hi,” he whispers back. “It’s- I can feel the vibrations from the engine here.”

Hotch laughs quietly at that, a fond smile crossing his face before his expression returns to seriousness. “Can we talk?” he asks quietly. Reid looks mildly surprised, but nods anyway. 

Hotch takes his place across from Reid, cross-legged on the floor. He doesn’t wait for Reid to look at him before he starts.

“How are you doing?” he begins. 

“I’m alright,” Reid replies evenly. 

Hotch smiles sadly. “Are you sure? Because I know how much Gideon meant to you.”

Reid shrugs, drumming his fingers against his knees. “I guess? It’s all… weird. Do you think-“

Hotch waits for more, but it soon becomes evident there won’t be any. “Reid?”

Reid looks up, meeting Hotch’s eye. “Do you think it might be my fault?”

And Hotch feels something in him break at that. It’s what he’d expected – and feared – most, Reid blaming himself for Jason’s departure. He knows Reid’s past, knows what his father did when he was so young and so vulnerable, the scar it left bigger and more painful than any physical wound would have caused. It tears at him inside to know that Reid has been bottling the question up all day, wearing his intellect like a shield to stop any of them knowing he’s hurting. 

“It’s not you,” Hotch says when he realises he’s not replied. “Jason Gideon was the strong man you knew, but even strong men reach breaking point.”

Reid frowns at that. “I don’t understand,” he whispers, the admittance falling heavily between them. “Everything feels… off kilter. I keep trying to work it out, but I don’t understand. It doesn’t make sense.”

“These things often don’t,” Hotch sighs. Even as he says it, he knows it’s little reassurance to the man in front of him, the man who works tirelessly to make sense of a world that isn’t in his language. “But I can promise you that none of this is your fault. You will find your balance again, and we’re here to help you do that.”

Reid screws up his eyes, rubbing a knuckle at his right eye with the accuracy of a tired toddler. 

“You should get some more sleep,” Hotch murmurs gently. Reid whines quietly in protest, but shuffles himself back onto the sofa anyway. 

Hotch goes to the back of the plane, checking the shelves and locating the thick woolen blanket he knows is always there. 

When he returns, Reid is already asleep, snoring quietly into his folded arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This doesn't strictly fit the story description, but it's how I wanted to deal with Gideon leaving anywho.


	5. 2008 - 04.01

SSA David Rossi will openly admit it: his first impressions of one Dr Spencer Reid were questionable.

He’d known the kid was clever. From the moment he met the scrawny-looking man with three PhDs and an insatiable thirst for knowledge evident from the _constant questioning_ about the past of the BAU, he’d known. But he’s not what anyone would expect of an agent and, at first, he really couldn’t see the kid surviving in the field.

He tells this to Hotch one night over Scotch and a long-time-no-see catch-up session. 

“He’s just… no social skills. And I know, I get it, anyone using Jason Gideon as their role model for how to interact with others is practically doomed from the start, but he really takes the biscuit,” Rossi rambles, gesturing in front of himself with the empty tumbler in hand. The cool night air lies crisp in his lungs, the view of his garden stretching off into the blackness. 

“He has to try harder than others,” Hotch says vaguely, setting his own empty glass down on the low garden table between them. He gives off an air of disinterest in the topic, but Rossi picks up on an underlying _something_ that he hadn’t expected. Defensiveness, perhaps?

Curious, he pushes further. “He’s on the spectrum, right?”

Hotch gives Rossi a lingering look before eventually nodding once. He reaches for the bottle – now only half full – and refills his own glass before setting it back down and taking a drink. 

“The BAU. It’s certainly an interesting choice,” Rossi persists. 

Hotch hears the implication in his tone and raises his eyebrows, challenging. 

“I would have thought he’d be more suited to-“

“He’s suited just fine to the BAU,” Hotch interjects firmly. 

Rossi blinks, taken aback. He hadn’t expected to encounter such a fiery protectiveness over Reid and wonders just what it is about the young agent that causes it. After a tense moment of silence, he shrugs, aiming to give off a forced air of nonchalance. “I get it. He’s good at what he does,” he backtracks. 

Hotch nods rigidly, something hard in his eyes. “Exceedingly good.”

And that’s where the conversation ends and Hotch excuses himself to call a taxi, leaving Rossi with more questions than he’d begun with. Until, two days later, he’s pulled into Hotch’s office and berated for _not working with the team._

“This is a team effort, Dave. I know that’s not how it used to be, but the only reason this unit is as strong and successful as is, is on the principle that we share our theories with each other and don’t leave anyone else in the dark.”

“It’s taking some getting used to,” Rossi admits, feeling like a schoolboy back at the headmaster’s office. 

Hotch’s posture loosens up a bit at that. He knows settling back into the BAU isn’t as easy as Rossi had hoped. 

Then he asks, “how are you getting along with Reid?”

Rossi raises his eyebrows, unsure where the question’s come from. “Fine. Aaron, what I said when we were talking-“

“You’re not the first to pick up it,” Aaron cuts in, “you’re definitely not going to be the last. It’s just…” he tails off, but Dave raises a hand. 

“I get it, Aaron,” he says truthfully. He can imagine what it must be like for Hotch, for the rest of the team, for _Reid_ to be constantly defending the young man’s ability, constantly rebutting concerns that he’s not up for the job or just doesn’t fit in the unit as well as the rest of the team. “He’s high functioning though, right? Apart from the people skills, I haven’t really noticed any other signs.”

Hotch pulls a face at that, waving his hand in a sort of ‘eh’ motion. 

“What?” Rossi presses.

“Most people would argue that functioning labels are mostly obsolete now,” Hotch informs him. 

“Oh?” 

“From what I understand – from what Reid and I have discussed – there’s no real way to truly classify an autistic person into a functioning category because everything –“ he hesitates to call them _symptoms_ , the word feeling wrong on his tongue – “what he can manage fluctuates and it’s really a matter for day-to-day assessment rather than being able to say one person is now and will always be able to meet a specific set of requirements to fulfil high or low functioning label.”

Rossi quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“It is. And it’s true in Reid. You’ve seen him mostly on good days. He has a lot more of those now than he did when he first joined the unit.”

Rossi nods and thinks he understands.

It’s not until sixth months down the line that he really _sees_. 

The first time Rossi really sees it is when Hotch is hurt.

There had been a bomb in – or under – SSA Kate Joyner’s SUV. 

“Hotch looks okay but Kate seems really hurt,” Garcia informs them over the line. Rossi doesn’t miss the way Reid’s right hand immediately comes up to worry at the collar of his button-down, the first visible sign of stress that Rossi really should have realized would eventually come to more.

And then there’s a bomb under the hospital – the hospital the entire team (bar Garcia) are stood in, and then Morgan drives away in the ambulance and there’s a brief, paralysing moment of not knowing if he’s okay that seems to suck the air from the entire team. 

And to his credit, Reid keeps his cool throughout the entire thing. Sure, when they find out there’s a piece of the profile missing, Reid pulls a small, red stress ball from his bag, but it’s not the first time he’s seen the agent with it during a case, and it’s understandable – even Rossi can feel the tension pulsing under his own fingers. He watches with vague awe and pride as Reid continues to draw arrows and marks and diagrams across the map on the evidence board with his right hand, the ball rolling and flattening in his left.

But the flight home is where it comes to a head. 

Rossi, Reid, Prentiss and Garcia are waiting on the tarmac by the jet when JJ pulls up in an SUV that’s otherwise empty. “Hotch isn’t cleared to fly for a while, and Morgan’s driving him back, so it’s just us,” JJ informs them as she approaches, bag slung over her shoulder. 

The change in Reid’s demeanour is noticeable immediately. He almost literally curls in on himself, a look of discomfort passing across his face. 

He’d planned for the six of them to be on the jet home. He’d known exactly which seats everybody would take, had known Hotch would sit next to him and JJ across from him and Morgan somewhere behind with his headphones plugged in. And now it’s changed, he isn’t prepared, and after the events of the past two days it’s too much to handle. 

“Reid, everything alright?” Rossi asks when he notices Reid stalling on the tarmac, not making any effort to move and join the rest of the team who are already halfway boarded on the jet. 

Reid just nods, visibly trying to pull himself together. He picks up his bag and starts towards the jet, but there’s a shakiness to his step that wasn’t there before. Rossi follows shortly behind.

They reach the doorway of the jet, and Reid stalls again, looking around. Rossi listens, alarmed, as Reid starts to emit a mid-pitch quiet whine that he’s sure he isn’t meant to hear. He wants to say something but he isn’t sure what, so he stands helpless behind Reid as the younger man falls apart. 

Reid’s shoulders begin to rise and fall quicker until he shakes his head, mumbling something frantic under his breath and dropping his go-bag in the doorway. Rossi catches Prentiss and Garcia’s worried looks over Reid’s shoulder, their eyes conveying the same sense of helplessness that Rossi feels. He decides to take action.

“Spencer,” he says lowly, directly into the younger man’s ear, “why don’t we go back out for a second?”

It takes a couple of seconds before Spencer seems to have processed what Rossi has said, but after a moment he turns, eyes looking anywhere but Rossi, and Rossi leads him back down the steps and into the midday sun. 

Where Reid promptly loses it.

One quiet sob turns into another, and it isn’t long before Reid is stood a meter away from Rossi, arms wrapped around his own midriff, crying. At some point, he begins rocking on his feet, tipping himself forward and backward. 

“It’s okay,” Rossi soothes, beginning a steady stream of comforting words, “it’s alright. I know we’ve had quite the scare these past couple days, but we’re all alright. It’s over and we’re all okay. We’re safe.”

Reid sucks in a sobbing breath, shaking his head, seeming to get lost in the motion, shaking _back and forth and back and forth_. He looks up at Rossi with desperate eyes, a frustrated whine leaving him as he obviously struggles to find the words he needs. 

“Take your time, Reid. Talk to me,” Rossi encourages. He knows by now that Reid and Aaron use sign, but he doesn’t know enough himself to keep up a dialogue. 

“It’s not- it’s not-“ Reid stammers, his breath coming shorter with the effort, “no, not _right_.”

“Not right?” Rossi latches onto that. “Can you tell me what you mean by that?”

“Not- not, uh,” Reid struggles for a few moments, attempting to force out some semblance of a sentence. He growls with frustration, persisting with the effort, but eventually he gives up, his hands clenching angrily at his sides. It hurts Rossi to see a man normally so fluent and eloquent stuck without words, but he pushes the feeling down; the last thing Reid needs now is pity.

“Alright. It’s okay, kid. Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Rossi pauses, knowing he has to go slow. “We’re gonna go back up there, and you’re gonna sit where you always do. And you can do whatever you need to do to be comfortable, alright?”

Reid sniffs and nods, his eyes still cast down. His fists loosen their tense hold and he folds his arms across his chest, tucking his hands under his armpits.

They make it back onto the jet without issue. The others eye Reid with concern as he settles into his seat, but Rossi tries to exude an air of confidence and control to stop them worrying as he buckles his own lap belt, sitting across from Reid in what is normally JJ’s spot. 

Around ten minutes into the flight, Reid pulls his knees up and rests his feet on the seat, leaning sideways so his head is resting against the side of the jet. Rossi lets out a breath as the younger agent finally starts to relax and watches Reid’s eyes droop and periodically reopen. The cycle of _eyes shut eyes open_ repeats for ten minutes, and Rossi’s curiosity builds. 

“Hey, kid?” he murmurs, leaning forward across the table, “you know you can go to sleep, right?”

Spencer nods, but doesn’t look convinced. 

“We’ll still be here when you wake up,” Rossi smiles, intending it to be a joke. But that, apparently, is all Reid needs to hear, and it’s only a matter of minutes before Reid’s breathing evens out and he’s asleep. 

Rossi finds himself smiling fondly. Well. First impressions be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I based this off the fact that Rossi was _sort of_ a dick when he first joined the show, and I wanted to reflect that in his initial relationship with Spence. I love Rossi, though, so here lies the end of portraying him as a bit of a prick.
> 
> Also, sidenote- I'm British, but I do my best to eliminate any screamingly obvious Britishisms. If I miss any, do point them out! Ta.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! :D


	6. 2009 - 05.03

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! This chapter contains a sick Reid, so tw for emetophobia.

All things being said, Reid handles being on crutches surprisingly well. 

In fact, he surprises even himself with the speed at which he adapts to his new one-legged lifestyle, the change in morning schedule (to accommodate awkward showers and even more awkward dressing himself) not throwing him off as much as he’d feared it would. 

What he doesn’t handle, however, is the prospect of being confined to Quantico while the rest of his team travel to solve a case. 

“You told me you were cleared to travel. You lied,” Hotch states admonishingly. 

“Naughty boy,” Emily grins.

“Um, no, I didn’t,” Reid defends, “I _am_ a doctor, so technically it wasn’t a lie.”

“What was it then?” Garcia questions from the doorway.

Reid smiles. “Uh- second opinion?”

Hotch has to pretend to not be amused. Garcia grins devilishly at him. “You’re my bitch now.”

The first few hours of the case pass without incident. Garcia welcomes Reid to her lair, taking care to switch off the potentially annoying flashing fairy lights above her computer before he arrives. When Reid settles into a spinning chair next to her own and immediately subconsciously begins to rock it from side to side, she doesn’t comment. 

She breaks for lunch four hours into the case, inviting Reid to come with but not pushing when he declines. He’s been working on some piece of the puzzle for the past half hour, growing steadily quieter, eyebrows furrowed with concentration. 

When she returns, he’s still hunched over the empty desk space she’d cleared, staring down at a page of a file in the exact same position she’d left him in.

“Hey,” she greets him, touching a palm to his shoulder. “Whatcha thinking?”

Reid lifts his head and stretches his neck, spinning the chair with his good leg so he’s facing Garcia. “My leg hurts,” he pouts.

“Have you taken painkillers?” Garcia asks. Reid looks away, shaking his head, and Garcia doesn’t press the matter. 

“I just- I don’t want to be here,” Reid admits. He doesn’t mean bad by it, and Garcia knows better than to feign offence. “I’d rather be in the field.” Reid tucks his hands into his armpits, providing pressure. 

Garcia softens further. “Hey. You do that, when you’re stressed, did you know that?”

Reid’s expression quirks downwards. “What?”

“You put your hands under your arms.”

Reid looks down, as if he hadn’t even realised he’d been doing it. “Oh.”

“You’re allowed to stim in front of me, you know.”

“I know,” Reid’s expression grows even more confused. “This is stimming.”

“But not the kind you want to do,” Garcia intones, looking pointedly down at Reid’s incessantly tapping right foot, which he hadn’t noticed either, if his reaction is anything to go by. “Go get some lunch. Stretch your legs.”

Reid gives her a deadpan look. 

“Figure of speech, boy wonder. But you have to eat. Do you want me to come?” 

“I’m okay,” Reid shakes his head, pushing himself to standing and accepting the crutches Garcia passes to him. He bends down wobbily and picks up his messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder.

Barely twenty minutes pass before Reid reappears in the door, looking significantly more worse for wear. His expression holds a vague not-quite panic and his balance is wobbly, like he’s struggling to hold himself up. 

“Hey you. What’s wrong?” Garcia stands immediately, joining him at his side. 

“I fell,” Reid sounds mortified, “in the cafeteria. I fell in the cafeteria. Someone had to help me up.”

“Oh sugar bear,” Garcia sympathises. “Come on, sit down. Did you manage anything to eat?”

Reid nods robotically, allowing himself to be pushed back into his now-designated spinning chair. He automatically tries to bring his legs up against his chest, but aborts the action with a hiss of pain. “Sorry,” he says, eyes finding Garcia, who only frowns. 

“What for?” 

“I- I’m okay,” he breathes. It sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than her. “I’m okay.”

“You’re okay,” Garcia affirms. 

And then Reid asks, “what did I miss?”, and Garcia makes quick work of forgetting the whole thing and filling him on phone calls from both JJ and Morgan, and things are back to normal. 

And Garcia never thinks to ask if Reid hurt himself when he fell. 

She doesn’t notice him growing steadily quieter as the day wears on. She doesn’t notice the way he keeps wiping his damp palms against his slacks, or the way he grows greener and greener in the face every time he moves.

She’s mid phone conversation with Emily when Reid stands and makes his way out of the room quickly, the click of his crutches disappearing down the hall far quicker than he’s moved yet. As soon as Emily hangs up, she spins around to see Reid’s chair empty, his messenger bag lying abandoned at its foot. 

Garcia’s heart jumps to her throat. She wills it to go back down, knowing she’s probably being irrational, but it’s a completely undisputed fact that Reid never goes anywhere without his bag of wonders.

She picks up the bag by its handle and dashes from the room, going as fast as she can manage in heels in the direction she thinks Reid has most likely gone. A host of scenarios play out in her head, and she tries to stick to the positive ones, but each seems more unlikely than the last. Reid having a breakthrough that solves the case and needing to get something from his desk. Reid deciding to go for a jaunt to burn some energy. Reid spontaneously deciding he wants to partake in some sort of crutch Olympics and dashing off to find the nearest event. 

She reaches the bullpen at a loss as to where he might be. She stops and tries to think what he could be up to. 

“Excuse me, Agent?” an unfamiliar male voice sounds from behind her. 

“Yes?” Garcia replies, turning to face him. His sleeves are rolled up and he’s clearly just washed his hands.

“Are you looking for Agent Reid?” the man – a desk agent she half-recognises – asks. 

“I am!” she nods vigorously, clutching tighter to his bag. 

“He’s in there,” the desk agent gestures towards the men’s bathroom, his expression somewhat uncomfortable. “He got sick. I was just coming to look for you.”

“Oh! Thank you!” Garcia starts towards the bathroom, “Can I?”

“Go ahead,” the agent shrugs. 

When Garcia steps inside, she immediately hears the sobbing coming from the furthest stall. She rushes towards it and covers her mouth with her hand when she sees Reid inside. 

He’s sat sideways, his back against the cubicle wall, his good leg pulled towards his chest and his bad leg stretched out so it extends under the wall of the next cubicle. There’s a stripe of vomit down the front of his chin and his button-down. He hadn’t made it in time. 

“Oh my god. Okay,” Garcia breathes, dropping Reid’s bag on the floor and crouching down next to him. “Hey, angel fish. It’s okay. Can you look at me?”

Reid’s ragged breaths are the only reply. Mere seconds later, he lurches sideways and throws up into the toilet. He sobs louder once it’s over, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“I’m gonna get you cleaned up, okay?” Garcia does her best to keep her voice calm, but she knows there’s a tinge of panic seeping in. She reaches up and pulls a length of toilet paper out of the dispenser, wadding it up before wiping Reid’s chin. The paper is coarse and only serves to add to Reid’s discomfort. The young agent jerks his head back to get away from the sensation, and it collides with the wall with a _bump_. He repeats the motion, his head knocking jerkily against the surface again and again until he’s caught in a horrifying, unbreakable loop. 

“No no no, stop that!” Garcia cries. She throws the toilet paper into the bowl and puts the palm of her right hand between Reid and the wall, cushioning the blows. “Reid, stop it! You’re hurting yourself!”

Without the sharp pain accompanying the action, it becomes easier for Reid to stop. Eventually, after a terrifying minute of banging, his head falls forward instead of back, his breathing still ragged but not as sharp as before. 

“Good,” Garcia breathes, wriggling her fingers to try and regain feeling in them, “you’re doing so well, baby boy. I’m just gonna flush the toilet, okay? It might make you feel better if it doesn’t smell so icky.” She stands and reaches to flush the handle, which turns out to be a horrible mistake. 

When sat right next to the toilet, the flushing sound is loud enough as it is, but this toilet is broken and with the flush comes a high-pitched squealing sound that makes even Garcia wince. Reid cries out, unsuccessfully trying to twist his body away from the source of the offending sound. He presses the heels of his hands hard over his ears and resumes the head-banging, his skull colliding even harder with the wall than before. 

Garcia thinks fast. She scrambles to open Reid’s bag and takes the black drawstring bag from inside, deftly pulling it open to reveal a pair of bulky pale blue ear defenders. The noise is mostly gone now, but Reid still has his hands pressed over his ears, so she decides it’s worth a shot.

It’s awkward, with the constant movement of Reid’s head, but she eventually manages to wrestle the headphones onto him. The reaction is almost instantaneous. Reid settles immediately, the harsh rocking being replaced by a complete stillness. 

The silence drags out for another ten minutes before Garcia really remembers that they’re sat both sat on the (weirdly sticky) men’s bathroom floor. She knows she has to get Reid up and to somewhere he can rest.

She pulls Reid’s AAC book out of his bag, flipping through the pages and finding the words she needs in order to communicate the plan. She picks out the relevant cards and composes a sentence on the velcro strip at the side. 

[I] [will] [help] [you] [up] [when you’re ready]

She places it in front of Reid’s line of sight, and he takes it into his own hands immediately. _A good sign_ , Garcia thinks with relief. 

Reid is far more familiar with the layout of the book than she is. He flips through the pages with ease and puts Garcia’s cards back in their respective places before picking two cards of his own.

[I feel] [sick]

Garcia smiles sadly at him. 

[I know], she finds, simply pointing to it. [When you’re ready], she taps again. 

Reid closes his eyes and takes a few fortifying breaths. When he opens them, he nods twice, pointing to the book. [I’m ready]. 

Getting him up is about as easy as expected. Garcia tries not to let either of them touch the sick on the front of Reid’s shirt, but she knows Reid keeps antibacterial gel in his bag anyway, if they need it. Reid loses balance when he’s half way up and his hand scrabbles to find Garcia’s arm, keeping him half-upright. Eventually, though, they manage, and Reid manages to balance himself for long enough to wash his hands thoroughly while Garcia does the same. 

Garcia leads Reid up towards Hotch’s blessedly unlocked office, careful to stay near in case he falls, but they make it without incident and Reid collapses onto the low couch against the wall, wincing in pain. 

“I’ll be right back,” Garcia says aloud, though she knows Reid can’t hear her. She walks purposefully to the kitchenette and pours Reid a glass of water, and stops at JJ’s desk on the way back to collect a bottle of ibuprofen from her drawer. Then, she stops by Reid’s desk, unzipping the go-bag underneath it and pulling out a fresh cotton t-shirt for him to change into. 

Reid has his eyes closed when she returns, and he would look asleep if it wasn’t for the tell-tale tightness in his brow that says otherwise. Garcia taps his hand gently to rouse him, holding up the water. 

“Drink,” she mouths, trying to look authoritative. Then, for good measure, she signs _please_. 

Reid sits up slowly, dizzily. He accepts the drink from Garcia’s hand and takes a few tentative sips. 

Then Garcia holds up the ibuprofen. Reid almost noticeably recoils.

“It’ll help you feel better,” Garcia says sympathetically. She knows why Reid is so reluctant to take any pain medication, but it’s unfounded when he’s clearly hurting so badly. She notices Reid’s gaze fixed intently on her mouth, eyes narrowed, and repeats it. “It’ll help you feel better. You’re in pain.”

After a moment of deliberation, Reid reaches out a clammy hand and deftly opens the bottle, shaking out two pills before knocking them back with a gulp of water. Garcia takes them back off him and helps him out of his shirt into the fresh one. Reid flops back onto the couch again, eyes drifting shut. 

Garcia quickly re-opens the AAC book and arranges more cards.

[TODAY’S SCHEDULE IS:]  
[Sleep]  
[Wake up]  
[I] [Drive] [You] [Home]  
[Eat] [Dinner]  
[Rest]

By the time she looks up, Reid is already fast asleep. She leaves the book open on the floor next to him, ready for when he wakes up, and steps outside to give him some peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took, like, more than a month to complete. I have a few chapters written - like Emily's return and one for Corazon - but I didn't want to post out of order, so I'm waiting til we get to those chronologically. I hope this one was worth the wait anywho :)
> 
> Also, I'm gonna start using my tumblr (@radiboyn) more, I think. So if you want to know where I'm up to progress-wise for this fic, I'll be posting updates on there. Do give me a follow :D Tatty bye!


	7. 2010

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set shortly after Seaver started at the BAU and not related to a specific episode.

The sound of an almighty crash is what draws Hotch’s attention.

He’d only just returned to the local police precinct, having spent the last hour and a half in the field, trying to establish an effective method of communication between the officers in the tiny, remote town with little mobile signal and even less internet access. 

His eyes immediately go to the source of the noise: a small side-room with windows big enough that he can see Reid inside, hunched over an empty desk, back to the door.

Hotch jogs swiftly to the room to investigate. From a distance, Reid doesn’t look hurt. Hotch can’t think of anything that would cause such a loud clatter. He knocks once before entering without waiting for permission.

The sight that greets him is entirely unexpected. 

The desk is half empty, the right side clear while the left remains cluttered with case files and photographs. The content of the right side of the desk is scattered across the floor chaotically, an empty coffee cup and pages of notes lying abandoned. Like Reid had pushed them off in a juvenile moment of anger and frustration. And Reid-

Reid is hunched over the desk, shoulders tight, perfectly still.

“Reid? Hotch says tentatively.

“Go away,” Reid’s voice is deadly quiet, a serious, sharp edge to it that immediately puts Hotch on high alert. 

Hotch pauses a moment, watching Reid’s back. “What’s wrong?”

“Go _away_ ,” Reid hisses. He sounds angry, and Hotch scans the room with his eyes, trying to work out what could be causing such a drastic change in mood. 

“You’re feeling destructive,” Hotch looks pointedly at the mess on the floor, though he knows Reid can’t see him do so. “I can’t leave you alone. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Reid suddenly swings around to face Hotch, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his eyes wild. 

“Leave me _alone_ ,” he practically growls. 

The hair on the back of Hotch’s neck stands up on alert. He briefly entertains granting Reid’s request, but he quickly dismisses that option; he can’t risk Reid hurting himself or destroying something valuable. “You know I can’t do that,” he says evenly, calm despite his rising concern. 

Reid’s right hand tugs compulsively at his collar. “You have to,” he says desperately. Hotch can almost see the anger and the obvious discomfort Reid is in (despite the lack of obvious cause) battling for dominance. 

Hotch’s eyes narrow slightly in reflection. “Reid, you’re obviously bothered about something-“

Without warning, Reid launches forward animalistically, intent on lunging at Hotch.

Hotch, who has years’ worth of defensive training on his side.

He moves quickly and grabs Reid’s wrists, holding the flailing fists away from himself. He takes care to only hold as tight as he needs to, determined not to escalate the situation or cause Reid any more discomfort than he has to in order to keep him safe. 

After a moment of mutual struggling, Hotch steps forwards and forces Reid back against the wall, crossing the younger man’s arms across his skinny chest in an x-shape and pressing his closed fists against his shoulders, effectively using Reid’s own bony arms to restrain him. 

“Calm down,” Hotch instructs, careful to not sound imposing or aggressive. 

Reid makes a distressed sound in the back of his throat. “Go away,” he pants, trying to kick out at Hotch. Hotch sidesteps away and remains calm, holding Reid in position.

“I need you to calm down,” Hotch repeats firmly, pressing Reid back stronger in response to the resulting wave of fight-or-flight that seems to course through him at the sound of Hotch’s voice. He skilfully readjusts his position so he can be sure he isn’t hurting Reid as he keeps him in place. “I can see you’re struggling. I will let you go, but I need to know you won’t hurt yourself or me.”

Reid shoves himself forwards, trying to throw off Hotch’s balance. His breathing is coming in quick, sharp pants, angry energy thrumming through him in palpable waves. When Hotch doesn’t topple, Reid aims a few more kicks, attempting to utilise his legs as Hotch stops him lashing out with his fists. 

When it becomes clear that attempting to lash out at Hotch while being bodily restrained isn’t going to give him the relief he needs, Reid changes tact. With a cry, he throws his head back, hard, his skull colliding with the wall with a sickening crack. 

“Spencer, no,” Hotch says firmly, keeping his tone as calm as he can. 

Spencer takes a ragged breath that sounds more like he’s choking than breathing, and then slams his head again, and again. 

Hotch is at a loss. He knows that, the moment he lets go of Reid’s arms, Reid will start hitting again. Hotch can take being hit, sure, but there’s potential for a confused LEO to spot them through the window and take unnecessary action against Reid, or maybe Reid will start hitting himself instead, and he’s already done himself enough damage. 

“Agent Hotchner?”

Hotch startles, looking over his shoulder to see Seaver stood in the doorway, her arms laden with files he barely remembers ordering her to obtain hours ago. Her eyes go wide when Spencer attempts to escape Hotch’s restraint, throwing his head back in frustration when his efforts prove futile. 

“What’s going- is he on something?” Seaver questions immediately. Hotch resists the urge to grind his teeth in annoyance. 

“I need you to go and find Rossi or Morgan,” he commands directly, muscles straining with the effort of holding his position. 

“They’re both at the first victim’s house. Is there anything I can do?”

Hotch weighs up the probability that Seaver will be of actual help against the overwhelming likelihood that Spencer will react even more violently to a new, unfamiliar person in his space. He half suspects that this – Seaver’s presence, a new person messing up the familiarity and predictability of his work space – is what’s triggered such a bad meltdown in the first place. 

Still, he doesn’t see any other options. 

“Take that couch cushion and hold it behind his head,” he instructs lowly, tilting his head towards the couch against the left wall. Seaver quickly does as told, moving beside Spencer and holding the cushion in place. 

Spencer growls, glaring at Hotch and struggling more against his hold, attempting to aim more kicks at Hotch’s shins, which Hotch easily dodges.

“Calm down,” Hotch says, keeping his voice somewhat soothing, “I’m here, it’s okay. Enough of this. Calm down.”

Spencer huffs heavy breaths through his nose, still attempting to bash his head despite the presence of the cushion making the sensation he craves impossible. 

“Why is he so angry?” Seaver questions.

Hotch knows that Spencer’s expression of anger is really an expression of fear and anxiety, and that Spencer isn’t lashing out from anger but from desperation, but he doesn’t correct Seaver. Instead, he shakes his head, and says, “I won’t know until he’s calmed down enough to tell me.”

Hotch turns his attention back to Spencer. His resolve is cracking, the struggling against Hotch’s hold lessening slightly. He eventually stops trying to bang his head and instead keeps it pressed back against the cushion, his breaths still coming in uneven heaves that leave Hotch’s lungs burning in sympathy. 

“I will help you, but you need to calm down,” Hotch reasons firmly, loosening his grip slightly, testing the waters to see if Spencer will kick off again. He doesn’t. 

“Sir?” Seaver speaks up. Hotch tenses, waiting for an adverse reaction from Spencer that never comes. 

“Sir, if he’s high on something, then the locals really shouldn’t-“ 

“He hasn’t taken anything,” Hotch shuts her down immediately. 

“Then why is he so agitated? He was trying to attack you, if anyone else saw-“

“Now isn’t the time for questions,” Hotch interrupts again. He knows how this must look to the new agent, but his priority right now is Reid. “Dave’ll speak to you later. Right now, I need you to keep quiet and give him space when I ask you to.”

Seaver stops asking questions after that, instead holding the cushion behind Spencer’s head silently, looking put out and annoyed. Hotch will apologise for his bluntness later. It’s not her fault she doesn’t know the team, or Spencer, well enough to know how to react.

After a few minutes of stillness and silence, Spencer’s breathing works into something resembling a normal pattern. His face crumples and the now familiar wave of post-meltdown sobs begins. 

Hotch releases Spencer from his hold when it becomes clear that the destructive phase is over. He nods for Seaver to take leave, and she does, leaving and closing the door behind her intentionally quietly, leaving Hotch wondering if she’d realised more about Reid in the past few minutes of quiet. 

Spencer remains stood by the wall, his hands moving to cover his face as he cries quietly, clearly trying to stifle his sobs and keep quiet, though Hotch isn’t sure why. He approaches Spencer carefully, aware he’s in dangerous territory, wary of starting a new cycle of rage and recovery. 

“Reid,” he murmurs, keeping a yard of distance between them. 

“S’not fair,” Spencer cries into his hands, his shoulders shaking pitifully. 

“What’s not fair?” Hotch asks.

Spencer takes a few shuddering breaths, his chest tight, before he tries to vocalise again. _“Noise,”_ he says emphatically, shrinking into himself protectively.

“What about noise? Can you explain?” 

“It’s not fair,” Spencer repeats, more insistent this time. “Everyone has so much noise, why can’t-“ he stops to hiccough over a sob, one hand moving from his face to rub at the collar of his shirt, “why can’t I stop? It’s not _fair.”_

Hotch knows Spencer is saying exactly what he means to say, exactly what he wants to communicate, but he can’t decode it. He looks around the room and spots Spencer’s bag abandoned by the bookcase. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Spencer. Do you need your headphones?”

“No,” Spencer shakes his head. “It’s not too loud, it’s just everyone’s noise is… nobody stops, nobody ever needs time to just stop, and think. It’s not fair, they- they don’t care, they don’t- they don’t care, I’m the only one who ever seems to c-care.”

“They don’t care about you needing time to think?” Hotch questions. He sees it now. A frustrated young man who doesn’t understand why nobody else seems to need time to pause, to process, to fill in the blanks. Who doesn’t understand why nobody in distant rooms seems to know their conversation can be heard, who doesn’t understand why nobody seems to care enough to stop talking when he’s seconds away from plunging into absolute panic or blinding rage. 

Spencer nods pitifully, both his arms wrapping around his torso. 

“I can be just as good as them,” Spencer’s voice is sorrowful and quiet, the comment directed at the ground in front of his feet. “I just need quiet to think.” 

Hotch feels a pang of sympathy ring through him. “I know you do, Spencer. I know you do.”

Spencer wipes his tears on his sleeve, sniffing as exhaustion takes over from the sadness. He moves to the couch of his own accord, sitting down heavily, arms folding round his midriff. 

“How’s the head?” Hotch doesn’t want to recall the thudding sound of skull against wall that will stay with him forever, but he needs to check that Spencer hasn’t done any lasting damage. 

Spencer presses a hand to the back of his head, checking for damage. He hisses as his fingers skate across a tender area. “No lump,” he confirms, “just sore.”

“Yeah, it will be. We’ll keep an eye on it,” Hotch promises, and then, when he sees Spencer turn away, his eyes closing, he says, “you don’t need to be ashamed. You couldn’t help it, Spencer. I’m not angry or disappointed. I was just worried.”

Spencer’s expression twists with anxiety. “What are we going to tell Seaver?”

“Whatever you feel comfortable telling her.”

“She thought I was on drugs,” Reid’s nose turns up at the mention of drugs, his arms tightening subconsciously around his stomach.

“She doesn’t know,” Hotch tries for a reassuring expression, though he knows Reid isn’t going to look at his face. “If you’re not up for having that conversation, I can ask Rossi to set her straight. He doesn’t need to tell her everything. Just that you weren’t – aren’t – high. If that’s what you want.”

Reid nods, refusing to meet Hotch’s eye. 

“And Reid?”

“Yeah?” 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t around to help you today,” Hotch apologises sincerely. “You shouldn’t have to suffer alone.”

“Couldn’t have helped,” Reid mumbles. “Can’t exactly ask every officer in the building to stop talking.”

Hotch huffs out a quiet laugh. He regards Reid sadly. “I suppose not.”

  


* * *

  


“Well there’s a face for the books,” Rossi remarks as he pushes through the double doors of the precinct, a cardboard coffee cup in each hand. 

Seaver looks up at him. She’d been distracted, barely reading the files on the desk in front of her, unable to stop replaying what she’d seen in her mind, analysing and scrutinising it for details and explanations. 

“I, uh, saw some stuff I don’t think I was meant to see,” she says vaguely.

Rossi raises an eyebrow knowingly. “And that’s what this is for,” he holds out one of the coffee cups to her, which she takes, giving him a questioning look. “Hotch called,” Rossi says by way of explanation. “Why don’t you and I take a walk?”

Ashley looks contemplatively into the water of the stream they end up walking along, coffee in hand. “I really thought he was high. I’ve seen it before – at college, there was this guy, and he got a… bad high, I guess, and it was just like that.”

“Uh huh,” Rossi says noncommittally, letting her ramble.

“I know he’s eccentric, but I just never expected Reid to be a user,” she sounds equal parts amazed and dissenting. 

“He’s not,” Rossi says coolly.

Ashley looks over at him. “Then what did I see, Rossi? There’s nothing else that can explain it.”

“There is. You just don’t see it,” Rossi pauses by the riverside, watching the water part around a protruding rock. “It takes time for anyone on the team to trust a new person with their vulnerabilities, and Reid especially so. You just have to stick around for long enough for it all to make sense.”

“Well that’s not cryptic at all,” Seaver rolls her eyes, kicking a stone into the water. “I’m just expected to take that there is some all-explaining reason for what happened? And that what I saw wasn’t _really_ something to be concerned about? Rossi, how many times have you seen a co-worker attacking your boss and let it slide?” 

“He wasn’t attacking Hotch. You’re a better profiler than that. Think,” he taps his temple with a finger, starting to walk again, “was Reid’s stance offensive or defensive?”

“Offensive,” she says firmly, jogging to follow him. 

The look that Rossi gives her tells her she’s wrong. “Are you sure?”

Seaver thinks it over for a moment. When she’d walked in, Hotch had been the one imposing over Reid, keeping him held back. But Reid had thrown his weight at Hotch, trying to free himself. It hadn’t looked defensive at the time, but…

“He seemed angry,” Seaver says slowly, like she’s unpicking it in her mind. 

“And what is anger so often a mask for?” Rossi prompts.

“Fear. He was afraid?”

Rossi gives her a look that says _‘go on’._

“He wasn’t afraid of Hotch. Hotch was… trying to help, I think. So he was afraid of something else.”

Rossi nods, tossing his now empty coffee cup into a bin as they pass by. He stays silent, and Seaver looks contemplative for a while.

“I don’t suppose I’m allowed to know what he was afraid of, am I?”

Rossi chuckles at that. “Observe, and you’ll see. In this job, it’s dangerous to assume so much. Little leaps are fine, but-“

“But I took a huge leap and missed,” Seaver finishes for him. “I guess I should apologise.”

“I think that would be the right thing to do,” Rossi agrees. They amble along the waterway for a while longer, until they reach a fork in the river. “Keep your eyes open and your brain… even more open,” Rossi says as they turn to head back to the precinct. “Do that, and you’ll fit in just fine.”

Seaver sighs. “Thanks, Rossi,”

By the time she sees Reid next-

Everything makes a little more sense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... you know that old saying. Life finds a way!
> 
> of completely screwing up your intended writing schedule.
> 
> Thank you for all comments and kudos thus far. Love you all :)


	8. 2011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set shortly after 06.12 - Corazon

Derek knows there’s something wrong with Spencer from the moment they land in Atlanta.

 

More accurately, he’d known there was something wrong before they’d started the case. Reid had been withdrawn and reluctant to contribute to the conversation unless explicitly directed to do so, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed by anyone on the team. And now they’ve landed, it’s even more obvious that something is ailing the young doctor.

 

“Hey, what’s the matter with you?” Morgan questions as they try to navigate their way through an unfamiliar cityscape. It’s harder without Reid’s memory working properly to direct them. “What, you’re not gonna chew my ear off with the history of this place? Come on, man.”

 

Reid hesitates slightly, and for the shortest of moments Derek worries that Reid might have slipped into being entirely non-verbal without him noticing. But then Reid clears his throat and says, “it was once illegal to put an ice cream cone in your back pocket here?” 

 

Derek snorts. “Well, keep an eye out. Might need to make an arrest,” he grins, his worry dissipating slightly. He weaves through the constant stream of commuters and businessmen with briefcases, Reid trailing behind. Eventually, Derek stops to ask someone if they’re headed in the right direction. 

 

He doesn’t hear the answer as Reid hisses suddenly, tripping backwards and pressing a hand to his eye under his glasses, physically recoiling from – something. Derek isn’t sure what. His concern immediately skyrockets and he steps forward, instinctively putting himself between Reid and the stranger. “Reid, you alright?”

 

“I’m fine,” Reid insists, still doubled over and wincing.

 

Derek waits for Reid to straighten up and recover from the bout of… whatever just happened. He looks around to check nobody’s listening in, the passer-by long gone, and steps in closer, keeping his voice low. “Reid, if you need-“

 

“I said I’m fine,” Reid repeats. He straightens up and darts past Morgan, the strap of his messenger bag clutched between his hands. Derek watches him walk away, perplexed by the increasingly odd behaviour. 

 

He’s forced to forget about it as the day wares on and they’re presented with another victim. At one point, Hotch comments on Reid’s strange behaviour, but there’s nothing they can do until Reid either tells them himself, or reaches breaking point.

 

Breaking point, it transpires, is much closer than Derek had anticipated.

 

It’s mid-afternoon at the precinct when Derek realises he hasn’t seen Spencer in a while. It wouldn’t normally be something to worry about – Reid frequently holes up in unused rooms and offices to get his work done in peace – but with today’s events playing on his mind, Morgan goes to find him.

 

He’s immediately glad he did.

 

He finds Reid hunched over in a small office at the back of the precinct, the light off. He’s rocking frantically in the desk chair, his hand pressed to his eye again, the sunglasses that had previously been practically glued to his face lying on the floor behind him.

 

Derek flicks on the light and rushes to Reid’s side, picking up the sunglasses as he goes. He automatically puts a hand on Reid’s shoulder, but withdraws when Reid flinches away violently. 

 

“Kid?” he questions. 

 

“Turn it off?” The request is strained, forced through gritted teeth.

 

“The light?” Derek questions.

 

“Mmm,” Reid confirms, his rocking increasing in speed until the chair is almost tipping onto its back legs with the force.

 

“Gotcha,” Morgan quickly does as Reid has requested, turning the light back off. It barely makes a difference, the midday sunlight that streams through the two tall windows disallowing anything near darkness.

 

“It really hurts,” Reid whispers, sounding close to tears. “I don’t know how to make it stop.”

 

“What hurts, kid?” Derek asks. Reid uses the hand not currently pressing into his eyeball to tap a finger to his temple, not turning around to look at Derek. “Your head? You got a headache?”

 

Reid nods, the tell-tale hitch in his breath that follows alerting Derek to the fact that he’s crying.

 

“What do you need me to do to help you?” Derek drops his voice. The question is one of the list of Reid knows to expect when he’s like this. _What do you need me to do? How can I help? Can you explain what’s wrong?_

 

“Uh, dark?” Reid croaks.

 

“Do you want your sunglasses?” Derek asks.

 

Reid hesitates for a moment and then nods. He turns in the seat to face Derek but doesn’t lift his head, instead continuing to squint at the ground. Derek hands him the glasses and watches as Reid’s shaking hands slide them onto his face. 

 

The tension on Reid’s frame doesn’t ease as Derek thought it would. Instead, he doesn’t move from his hunched-up position on the chair, his leg bouncing quickly. Derek frowns and tries to work out a fix. 

 

“Have you taken any painkillers?” he asks.

 

Reid shakes his head, and then winces, regretting the movement. “They don’t help. Not medical.”

 

“You’ve seen a doctor?” Morgan knows this means it isn’t the first time this has happened.

 

“Mm,” Reid confirms, “ _psychosomatic._ ” Morgan doesn’t miss the way Reid’s expression screws up at the word in disdain. 

 

Psychosomatic, Morgan considers. Which could mean…

 

“Why don’t you come back to the hotel with me and lie down for a bit? I think you might just need some time to wind down and come down from being overstimulated.”

 

“Not overstimulated,” Reid mumbles weakly, but he doesn’t offer any further protest. 

 

Morgan raises an eyebrow at him. “Still, a dark, quiet room’s gotta sound good right now. Come on, pretty boy. I’ll drive.”

 

By the time they reach the main doors to the building, Reid has given up all pretence of feeling okay. He openly cries out when he steps into the bright, afternoon light outside, and lets Morgan’s gentle touch guide him into the passenger seat of the SUV while his eyes stay firmly shut. 

 

He spends half of the journey sat stock still, hunched over with his hands in his lap, and spends the other half completely unable to sit still, bouncing his leg and twisting his hands in an effort to distract from the pain. 

 

Once they’re at the hotel and have successfully navigated their way to Reid’s room, Morgan sets him down on the bed. Reid instantly curls up on top of the covers and goes still, his tense, controlled breathing the only sign that he hasn’t fallen flat asleep. 

 

Morgan draws the thick hotel curtains, making sure all light is blocked out. He stands in the dark, watching Spencer’s curled up form on the bed, and hopes he’s doing the right thing. Seeing Reid in pain leaves his heart aching with sympathy. 

 

“Reid. I’m gonna be right next door, working on the case. You come get me, or shout, if you need anything. Alright?”

 

He doesn’t expect a reply, but Reid hums a ‘mmm’ in response. 

 

Morgan smiles sadly at him. “I’ll come back in an hour to see how you’re doing,” he promises, and then takes his leave, shutting the door with a soft click. 

 

======

 

Morgan startles when the alarm he’d set to indicate an hour has passed rings. He silences it quickly and stretches a kink out of his neck as he stands, not having realised how long he’d been working at his room’s desk for.

 

Grabbing Reid’s room key, he slips out of his own room and knocks twice, quietly, on the door next to his own. 

 

There’s no reply from inside. Morgan isn’t surprised; Reid is probably asleep, or maybe wearing his headphones. He knocks again to announce his entry and then uses the key to let himself in.

 

The light is still off, the curtains still drawn. But Reid isn’t asleep.

 

Even in the limited light, Morgan immediately spots Reid sat cross-legged in the centre of the bed he’d left him in an hour ago, hunched over so his face can’t be seen. The heel of his left hand is pressing firmly into his left eye, while he gnaws at the tips of the index and middle fingers of his right. The cardigan Morgan knows he’s been wearing all day lies next to him, tangled in a ball, discarded in a haste. 

 

Morgan quickly moves forwards, concerned for his friend. He crouches in front of the bed and notices that, behind his hand, Reid’s eyes are screwed shut. 

 

“Reid?” he calls quietly.

 

Reid doesn’t give a response, verbal or otherwise. 

 

Morgan does his best to assess the situation without really knowing what’s going on. He scans the room for any obvious source of discomfort that could be preventing Reid from getting some rest, but it’s devoid of any ticking clocks, buzzing appliances or bright lights. The fingers in Reid’s mouth are just… sat, his teeth barely making marks in the skin. He’s not biting down hard. Probably not distressed, Morgan concludes. 

 

He briefly contemplates pulling Reid’s fingertips from his mouth, but the action, while mildly unsanitary, isn’t causing him any harm. 

 

The next most obvious explanation is that Reid is actually ill. Morgan pushes himself to standing and then tentatively reaches out to place a palm across Reid’s forehead. Reid doesn’t flinch away like Morgan expects – in fact, he leans into the touch.

 

“Is it your head still? Still got that headache?” Morgan questions, his tone gentle, leaving his palm on Spencer’s forehead.

 

Reid’s eyes open and flick up to Morgan’s for a fraction of a second, squinting even in the dim light. It’s the first sign of recognition he’s shown since Morgan arrived. 

 

“Kid?” Morgan prompts.

 

After a moment, Reid nods, his eyes squeezing shut again. The confirmation is so minute that Morgan might have missed it had he not been looking for it. 

 

He lets out a deep sigh. He can feel the dry heat radiating off Reid and isn’t sure if it’s from whatever malady Spencer is suffering, or a product of the intense mid-Summer heat. A sinking feeling accompanies the realisation that, no matter what the cause, there probably isn’t anything he can do to make this better. He regards Reid with sympathy for a few moments before deciding on a plan of action.

 

“Kid, lie down,” he says gently. 

 

Reid turns his head towards his shoulder, like he’s trying to shield his face, and then shakes his head. 

 

“Come on, Reid. Lie down. You don’t have to sleep. I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

 

Spencer hesitates, the room still with silence. After a moment, he shuffles on the bed and readjusts until he’s lying down, curled on his side. He withdraws his fingertips from his mouth and curls both hands up under his chin, making himself look much smaller than he is. 

 

“Shuffle over,” Morgan instructs quietly, gesturing to the side of the bed while he toes his shoes off. Reid wriggles until he’s not lying in the middle anymore, and then looks at Morgan questioningly, a quiet ‘hmm?’ hovering in his throat.

 

Morgan says nothing. He sits on the unoccupied side of the bed, swinging his legs up so they’re stretched out in front of him. And then he reaches one hand down and begins carding it through Reid’s short, curly hair.

 

Reid freezes for a moment. Derek watches with held breath, waiting to see if Reid will reject the touch, but, moments later, all the tension in his body seems to melt away completely, and Morgan releases his breath. Contact – physical contact like this – had been a staple during the days of withdrawal and cravings. Reid’s hair had been longer, then. Now, Morgan keeps his movements light as he brushes the knots out of Reid’s short curls, his fingers barely scraping Reid’s scalp. 

 

“Close your eyes,” Morgan whispers. Within seconds, Reid is already dropping off. “Get some rest. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ughhhh y'all I literally rewrote this chapter six times and I'm still not 100% happy with how it turned out but I want to move on to the next chapter so this is the best it's gonna get


	9. 2011 - 06.18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Reid copes after Prentiss. Set post _06.18 - Lauren._

“The last time I was on a couch like this was when my father left.”

Hotch doesn’t say anything. He regards Reid carefully.

“They all thought I needed to talk, but developmentally I wasn’t guided by conscience,” Reid continues, gaze focused on his right hand where it picks at the nails of his left in his lap. “I could only reveal what my mother and teachers told me was acceptable.”

“You told them exactly what you knew they wanted to hear,” Hotch surmises. “You don’t have to do that here.”

Reid nods. Hotch stays silent again, waiting for Reid to look up at him. 

Reid refusing eye contact isn’t uncommon, especially when he’s stressed or upset, but it makes it all the more difficult for Hotch to gauge how he’s feeling. He regards Spencer for a long moment, sitting back in his seat. He doesn’t know if the words Spencer is saying are his own, or if he’s repeating what he’s been told before. A painful awareness sits in his chest that they’re both well out of their depth here, Spencer with understanding what he’s feeling and Aaron with knowing how to help.

He spots Spencer’s satchel out of the corner of his eye. 

“Why don’t you use your book?”

Spencer frowns at his hands. “But I can talk.”

“I know that. But you’re struggling to express what’s going on inside your head. Maybe narrowing it down to words and pictures will help,” Hotch reasons.

Spencer doesn’t reply except to reach for his bag and pull out the AAC book. He flips through the pages loaded with cards and selects one immediately, holding it. His hand hovers above the page for a second as he looks through the remaining cards, before he eventually sticks the only one chosen to the Velcro strip and holds it out to Hotch.

Hotch looks down at the book. Sitting wonkily on the strip is a picture of a blue, frowning face, with the word [sad] printed in bold beneath it. 

Hotch looks back up at Spencer. “What type of sad?”

Spencer’s expression screws up. He knuckles at his eye. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. 

Hotch pauses, experienced enough with Spencer to know that he needs to take this slow. When Spencer doesn’t offer anything else, he glances back down at the pages. “You didn’t choose overwhelmed or anxious,” he notes. 

“Hopeless,” Reid blurts suddenly. He looks up at Hotch. “Hopeless sad.” 

Hotch sits still, resisting the urge to pick up his pen. The evaluation doesn’t need to tell this much. 

“It’s just unfair that she’s gone,” Reid almost whispers, as if he’s afraid saying it will make it more true. “If we can’t keep each other safe, then why are we doing any of this? Sometimes I think maybe… maybe Gideon was right. Maybe it’s just not worth it.” 

  


* * *

  


He starts staying at JJ’s house two weeks later. They both agree it’s for the best. Where the silence of his apartment had been a comfort before, it’s now deafening, conducive only to a spiralling sense of grief and hopelessness. 

Even so, JJ doesn’t see a lot of him. He keeps to himself most nights, reading book after book in the guest bedroom, though whether he’s taking any of it in, JJ isn’t sure. During the time he spends out of the bedroom, JJ watches him closely. As guilty as it makes her feel, she keeps track of his behaviour and his mood, waiting for the inevitable breakdown.

It makes her feel awful, but she knows. Knows it can only be a matter of time. He compartmentalises, bottles his feelings up for a living. It has to come out somehow.

In the end, it’s not the initial shock of losing Emily that causes it. It’s not the funeral, nor is it the awkward, quiet counselling sessions in Hotch’s office. He stays quietly composed throughout, a subtle sadness keeping his head bowed and his face shielded.

In the end, it’s just a normal, regular Saturday night. 

It’s six thirty-three, and JJ realises she hasn’t seen Reid all evening. Which is odd, because he normally makes a concerted effort to check in with JJ every hour or two, padding downstairs to show his face under the guise of asking for a glass of water or to saying hello to Henry and Will.

“You okay?” Will asks from his position sat along from her on their sofa.

“Fine,” JJ shakes herself from her thoughts and nods, offering a small reassuring smile. “I haven’t seen Spence in a while.”

“Go check on him,” Will says knowingly. 

“Yeah,” JJ stands up. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

She checks all the downstairs rooms first, in case he’d come down without being noticed. The search proves fruitless, so she starts upstairs, heading straight for the guest room. 

“Spence?” she calls, knocking on the door and opening it a crack. “You decent?” 

There’s no reply. JJ opens the door and almost doesn’t spot him, but- 

-she finds him curled up on the floor of the guest room, crammed in between the bed and the bookcase next to it with his knees pulled up to his chest. His cheeks are wet with tears, his short hair doing nothing to obstruct his face like it normally would.

“Oh, Spence.” She feels sympathy flood through her. His expression twists as he cries, a noticeable tremble running through his entire body.

JJ leaves the door open and comes to sit cross-legged in front of him. His arms are resting on his knees, so she reaches out and takes both of his hands in hers, holding tightly. “Hey,” she whispers. “Spence. Look at me.” 

His gaze momentarily flicks towards JJ before he looks away again, fresh tears forming in his eyes. From her position with her hands on his too-warm skin, JJ can feel Reid’s pulse tripping along under her touch, far too fast, matching the short, sharp breaths leaving his mouth.

She lets go of Reid’s hands and starts rubbing her hands up and down his bare forearms, hoping to provide something of a grounding tactile input. Spencer makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and drops his head, his chin touching his chest, as he tries and fails to take in even breaths. 

JJ continues the rubbing, not faltering even when Spencer’s hands clench into fists and his arms twist for a moment before he loosens off again. A car horn outside the window makes him flinch and recoil, his back hitting the wall with a quiet _bump._ JJ knows there isn’t much she can do but wait it out, but her heart breaks as Spencer breaks off into a fresh wave of sobs. 

“Mommy?”

JJ jumps at the sudden voice behind her. She turns her head to see Henry stood in the door, his blue dinosaur plushie hanging from one hand, the other working nervously at the hem of his t-shirt. He’s staring at Spencer with a nervous expression, like he can tell something is wrong but doesn’t know what. 

“Hi, baby,” JJ whispers, smiling at him, trying to project calm and ease. 

“’Pens okay?” he asks, stepping carefully into the room, focused on Spencer.

“Uncle Spence is okay,” she nods.

Henry tilts his head, frowning. “Why’s he cryin’?” 

“Because he’s upset,” JJ explains softly. “We all cry when we’re upset. Mommy and Daddy and you too.”

“Oh,” Henry says, expression pensive. 

“Henry, could you go find Daddy?” JJ asks gently. “Tell him to come up here?”

“Okay!” Henry toddles off and JJ turns back around, focusing her attention back on Spencer.

He isn’t agitated, but that’s little consolation as she takes in the anguished look in his eyes and the constant tremor running through him. She wonders what’s set this off (and swallows the guilt that comes with the knowledge that this is almost definitely him grieving). 

“You’re okay, Spence,” she whispers, squeezing his hands. She blinks back the tears threatening to form in her own eyes. “This’ll be over soon. Just breathe.”

“Jayje,” Will’s voice sounds behind her. She feels, rather than sees, him crouching behind her. “You good?” 

“We’re okay,” JJ breathes. “Could you find his blanket? I think it’s downstairs. Henry was playing with it.” 

“Sure,” Will takes his leave. Barely a minute passes before he steps back into the room, Spencer’s navy blue weighted blanket in is arms. He wordlessly passes it down to JJ, who does her best to drape it over Spencer’s shoulders in spite of the limited space. 

The effect is almost instantaneous. His eyes slip shut, the tears ceasing. He doesn’t look happy or relaxed, but JJ can tell the raw pain is lapsing, giving way to exhaustion as the tension in his limbs drains and his breathing finally evens. 

“Spence,” JJ whispers after two minutes of silence.

He makes a noise of acknowledgement but doesn’t open his eyes.

“Hey,” JJ smiles, though he can’t see her. “Do you think you could get out of this space now?”

Reid’s only response is to curl up tighter, drawing his knees closer to his chest, the blanket shifting around him. JJ takes that as a resolute no.

“Alright,” she waits a moment to see if he’ll respond, but he stays still, curled under the blanket. “How about I leave you to do what you need for a while?” she suggests quietly. “You can shout – or come find me – if you need anything.”

He doesn’t reply (he’s too worn out, JJ knows it's not stubbornness or rudeness). She stands and makes her way to the door, watching Reid carefully to see if he’ll protest. When he doesn’t, she leaves the room and pulls the door shut behind her, giving him some space. 

“He okay?” Will asks quietly when she re-enters the living room. 

“Yeah,” she replies, but then she shakes her head. “No. I don’t know. I’m not sure what triggered that. I need to go check on him in a while.” 

When she does check on him half an hour later, she finds him curled up on top of the bed’s covers, entirely under the weighted blanket, only his unruly hair peeking out at the top. JJ sighs. She’d intended to talk to him tonight – she knows he needs to talk to someone – but right now, he needs rest. She listens to the even cadence of his breathing for a moment longer before pulling the door shut again. 

Tomorrow, they will talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to everyone who left a comment or a kudos or bookmarked this. You're all incredible.
> 
> Find me on tumblr @radiboyn :)
> 
> (Also, should I add Will and Henry to the character tags? I think I'm gonna leave them out. Let me know.)


	10. 2011 - 07.01

_“Her identity was strictly need-to-know. She stayed there until she was well enough to travel. She was reassigned to Paris where she was given several identities, none of which we had access to, for her security.”_

 

Its Garcia who breaks the silence first.

 

“She’s alive?”

 

Hotch nods once.

 

“But we buried her.”

 

An indecipherable expression passes across Hotch’s face before he schools it back into a carefully constructed neutral. “As I said, I take full responsibility for the decision. If anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me.”

 

“Any issues?” Morgan’s voice holds a dangerous edge. “Yeah, I got issues-“

 

“Oh my God.”

 

For one long, impossible moment, time stands still. Morgan’s anger vanishes as he takes in the sight of Emily Prentiss - dead for six months, buried under the US flag - standing in the doorway. 

 

“You’re not supposed to be alive.”

 

It’s all Reid manages to choke out before he rushes from the room. The rest of the team watch on with sinking hearts as JJ’s attempt at keeping him from walking away (so similar to that day in the hospital where she’d told them the lie) fails, and he pushes past her through the doors of the round table room.

 

“I’ll go,” Hotch offers, already moving to follow him, but Emily puts up a hand to stop him.

 

“I should- I need to be the one who does this,” she says, and everyone understands. Hotch nods.

 

It takes Emily a while to find Reid. She wracks her brain for places she remembers him bolting to in the past, but the only places she can think of are Hotch and Rossi’s offices, which are disappointingly empty. He isn’t at his desk, and Morgan tells her he isn’t in the bathrooms, either.

 

She’s just beginning to panic when, on a whim, she decides to try Garcia’s empty workspace. The door is shut, so she pushes it open and peaks inside. 

 

And there he is.

 

Half under the extensive work surface is sat Spencer, his eyes pressed against his knees. He doesn’t respond when Emily opens the door, doesn’t respond when she purposely clears her throat and crouches in front of him.

 

“Reid?” She tries tentatively.

 

Spencer’s head doesn’t lift, but he shifts, propelling himself into a sharp, jerky rocking motion with his toes. Emily tries not to let it affect her, but she can’t stop the swell of guilt and sadness that starts in her chest at the sight. She settles into a sitting position in front of him, listening to his too-fast breathing and watching his pulse jump quickly in his neck. 

 

After only a moment, he mumbles into his knees. “You’re not s-supposed to be here.”

 

Emily tries not to feel offended by that. She’d known from the moment she’d agreed to come back that the change would hit Reid the hardest. Her return is about as high up on the list of things Spencer Reid does not expect and is not prepared for as it can be. 

 

“But I am,” she counters simply, keeping her voice quiet.

 

“You were dead,” Spencer tips his head up so Emily can see his red-rimmed, panic filled eyes. “We buried you.” His voice cracks, coming out scratchy and hoarse.

 

“I know. But I’ve been alive, Spencer. I know you’ve only just gotten used to me being gone, and now I’m back and… it’s a huge change for you to get your head around.”

 

Reid’s breathing still won’t slow down, and Emily begins to feel the first real tendrils of worry wrap around her. He returns to pressing his eyes against his knees (not that Emily can really blame him, in Garcia’s overwhelmingly colourful space), and the rocking starts and stops sporadically with no real rhythm. 

 

“You know, when I was in Paris, I was thinking about you all the time,” she starts, hoping to divert his attention. “I went up the Eiffel Tower and all I could think was that you’d probably be able to tell me exactly how many people make that same journey up in that elevator every day.”

 

“An average of nineteen-thousand, one-hundred and seventy-eight,” Reid mumbles automatically, “although most use the stairs.”

 

Emily laughs out loud at that. “You know me. I’m not a stairs person. That much hasn’t changed.”

 

Reid looks up again, and although he’s not looking at Emily, his eyes seem a little clearer, a little less panic-stricken. “You know there are thirty locations around the world called Paris?”

 

“I did not,” Emily admits.

 

Reid clears his throat. “There’s one 58.2 miles from here,” he says quietly, like he’s trying to make it all fit together in his mind. “But you- I thought you were here, you were buried, but you were in Paris 3,855 miles away.”

 

“I’m here now,” she says sincerely. “Not 4,000 miles away. Not 58 miles away. I’m here.” 

 

Reid nods. He stretches his legs out, uncurling them from their position tucked against his chest. Emily sees now how truly wrecked he looks, and vows never to put him - or anyone on the team - through something like this again.

  


* * *

  


If they were ready for the initial panic, they were nowhere near prepared for the ensuing anger that followed in the weeks to come.

 

A knock at Rossi’s office door causes him to look up, calling for whoever it is to come in. A tearful JJ steps inside, looking equal parts frustrated and guilty as she wipes haphazardly at her eyes with the side of her hand. Rossi raises his eyebrows and puts his pen down, wondering what could have brought her to his office instead of their unit chief’s. 

 

“Have you seen Spence?” 

 

_Ah._ “Not since this morning. Has something happened?” 

 

JJ’s expression twists like she might cry again, but she stops herself, taking a breath. “We had a fight. He’s really, _really_ angry, Rossi. He ran off, and I don’t know where he went, but I’m _worried_ about him. I mean, what if-“

 

Rossi holds up a hand, silencing her. “Slow down. He’s probably fine.”

 

“What do I do, Rossi?” JJ asks mournfully.

 

He stands from his desk and gestures to the chair on the other side of it. _“You_ wait here. _I_ will go and find the kid.”

 

While he searches, something in the back of Rossi’s mind notes, with vague sarcasm, the sudden increase in the collective time they’ve all spent looking for Reid. He’s about to grumble something about _putting a damn tracker on the kid_ when he finds him, and the humorous front slips from his mind.

 

He isn’t surprised to find Reid sat on the floor in the corner of the otherwise empty conference room, his hands alternating between rubbing firmly up and down his shins and clenching into tight fists that threaten to hit but never do. Rossi slips into the room silently, shutting the door behind him. 

 

Spencer glowers at the floor and presses himself further into the corner. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

Rossi shrugs, deciding to play it casual. “Works for me,” he replies coolly. He pulls out a chair from under the table, sitting with his back half-turned towards Reid, trying to project an air of nonchalance as he pulls out his phone and rests his elbows on the table, watching the screen. “I’m just going to sit with you.” 

 

They fall into silence after that. Spencer frowns at the floor in front of his converse, tears gathering in his eyes but not falling. When he looks up, Rossi can see the anger and hurt swimming in his expression, can see the cogs turning in his head as he processes what’s happened.

 

Reid isn’t quiet with his anger. He huffs and sighs forcefully, burying his face in his knees and then tipping his head back and groaning at the ceiling. Rossi just listens on silently, letting him do whatever he needs. He knows Reid struggles with expressing what he’s feeling at the best of times, and he’s more than happy to just keep silent vigil beside the younger agent, pretending to pay attention to his phone as Reid falls apart and puts himself back together in sequence. 

 

Reid’s fist bangs once on the wall beside him. Rossi glances at him with a raised eyebrow, taking in the clenched fist and the persistent tremor that runs through it. “Don’t do that.”

 

An instinctive jerk in Reid’s clenched fist tells Rossi everything he needs to know about the control Reid currently has over his actions. 

 

“Kid,” Rossi starts. _Not talking about it be damned._ “You’re right to be angry.”

 

Reid makes a noise in the back of his throat, continuing to glare at the floor, clearly expecting there to be a _but_ following. 

 

“No but,” Rossi shrugs. “JJ hurt you. Lied to you. You’re right to be angry.”

 

Reid bristles, clearly unsure how to handle the strange acceptance in place of the lecture he was clearly expecting to receive. Agitated, he runs a hand across the back of his head, feeling the cropped hair under his fingers, and Rossi’s almost certain he’d be pulling on it if it wasn’t so short. _Small mercies,_ he thinks. 

 

“I’m angry,” Reid whispers suddenly, his voice hoarse and raw with emotion. “I’m _angry.”_

 

“And that’s okay.”

 

“Okay,” Reid repeats, more for his own benefit than Rossi’s. “Okay. Okay.”

 

He spends the next five minutes muttering to himself - a mix of ‘okay’ and various other unintelligible mumbles - before he leans back against the wall, letting out a long sigh.

 

“Finished?” Rossi asks, trying to inject some vague amusement into his tone. _Keep it light. Don’t make a fuss._

 

Reid nods. “Okay,” he says, and Rossi can’t help but laugh a little at that. 

 

“Okay, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Rossi is the human equivalent of the ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ emoji.
> 
> Sorry this took so long to get out. I sort of lost my groove when it came to writing, but I'm back, baby!


	11. 2012 - 07.24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during JJ and Will's wedding. 
> 
> (I can't remember if it's ever disclosed how Emily told the team she's leaving, but for the sake of this chapter, she told them at the wedding.)

 

“There he is! Pretty boy! We were starting to wonder where you’d gone!” Derek exclaims, finding Reid leaning with his hands braced against Rossi’s kitchen counter, his back to the door. He whips around at the sound of Derek’s voice, and Derek isn’t sure if he imagines the wince that seems to be gone as soon as it came. 

 

“Getting another drink?” Derek grins, gesturing to Reid’s empty glass sat on the counter. “You know, Reid, I woulda thought a lightweight like you would be gone hours ago.”

 

Spencer doesn’t reply. He stops looking at Derek and moves his eyes to inspect the floor silently. 

 

Derek softens, smiling at the younger agent. “Getting tired, huh?” 

 

The noncommittal noise Reid makes in response causes Derek to blink, his smile faltering as he regards his friend. “What’s wrong, kid?”

 

He watches as Spencer swallows convulsively, his throat bobbing. The younger agent shakes his head, his neatly parted hair flopping in front of his eyes as he does so.

 

“Hey,” Derek frowns, stepping in closer as he realises Spencer isn’t just tired. “Hey, okay.” He places a warm hand on Spencer’s side, alarm bells going off in his head as he feels Spencer trembling even through his suit jacket. 

 

Spencer makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, so quiet that Derek is sure he wouldn’t have heard it had he not been so close. He steps back a fraction, just so he can see Spencer’s face, and finds the younger man’s cheeks flushed, his eyes fixed on the ground, a slight frown causing his eyebrows to draw together. 

 

“Let’s go sit down,” Derek suggests quietly, abandoning his still-empty glass on the counter. 

 

He uses his palm on Spencer’s side to gently guide him out of the kitchen with the intent of taking him to the back of the house to find a quiet, unused room where they can sit. He doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, but he guesses it’s something in the ballpark of sensory and/or emotional overload, which, if true, is unsurprising, considering the events of the day. 

 

They make it a few yards out of the kitchen when Spencer stalls suddenly, his body locking up. His hands come up to fold under his chin, and Derek doesn’t miss the fearful look that arrives suddenly in his eyes. He follows Spencer’s gaze and spots the source of his distress: the expensive-looking speaker playing Rossi’s music in the next room. To Derek, it’s not loud at all, but he imagines it must be hell for Spencer to get any closer. 

 

“Put your hands over your ears,” he murmurs to Spencer, stepping into his line of sight, blocking the speaker from his view. “It’s okay, nobody will see. We’re not going that way. Cover your ears.”

 

It takes a few moments for Spencer’s hands to cooperate, but he eventually has them over both his ears, pressing tight. Derek thinks he might look ashamed, but he pushes the surge of sadness he feels away, his priority to get Spencer somewhere calm. 

 

With Derek’s guidance, Spencer makes it to a dimly lit back room with two low couches and an unlit fireplace. Derek pushes him down onto the couch furthest away fro the door, waving his hand to signal Spencer can remove his own from his ears. 

 

Almost immediately, Spencer shuts down, his entire form going still. He sits forward with his head in his hands, a violent trembling coursing through him. His hands cover enough of his face that Derek can’t get a proper read on his expression, but if he listens hard enough, he’s sure he can hear Spencer’s teeth chattering with the intensity of the shaking. 

 

He listens on in silence as Spencer struggles to draw an even breath. After a long minute, his leg starts to bounce, and Derek wonders if he’s caught what’s beginning to look like a meltdown in time to divert it or not, knowing he’ll be unable to tell until Spencer either calms or tips over the edge. 

 

“Everything okay?”

 

The voice in the doorway behind him nearly causes Derek to jump a mile, the agent having been so focused on Reid that he hadn’t heard the intruder come in. He turns to find Hotch leaning against the doorframe, champagne flute in hand, directing a concerned look in Spencer’s direction. 

 

“I don’t know,” Derek replies truthfully, glancing back at Spencer, “think I might have caught it just in time.”

 

Hotch nods. “Reid?” he asks quietly.

 

Spencer makes no response, his body still and tense. The rapid tapping of the heel of one of his dress shoes against the hardwood floor penetrates the silence between them. 

 

“Do you need me to stay?” Hotch asks Derek. 

 

Derek looks back at Reid, then shakes his head. “Nah, I think we’re good. I’ll call if we need anything.” 

 

Hotch pushes away from the doorframe and turns to leave. As he does so, Spencer moves his hand from his face, signing something that Derek doesn’t recognise. 

 

“Hotch, wait,” he calls towards the door. 

 

Hotch steps back into the room, the questioning look being replaced by understanding as he watches Spencer’s right index finger making two circling motions. 

 

“You want to be left alone?” Hotch asks.

 

Spencer signs _yes._

 

Derek looks between them with uncertainty, but Spencer seems pretty set in what he wants. “Alright, kid, if you’re sure,” he says as he stands, following Hotch out of the room. 

 

He shuts the door gently behind him, and doesn’t get to see Spencer signing a _sorry_ as he leaves.

 

* * *

 

It’s JJ who comes to check on him, forty minutes later. 

 

She edges into the room quietly and spots Reid lying on his side on the couch, his face pressed into the corner cushion, his back to the door. His breathing is slow and even, and she watches him for a minute, trying to decide if he’s asleep or awake. 

 

“Spence?” she whispers. “You awake?” 

 

She doesn’t think she’s going to get a reply, but Spencer shifts slightly, uttering a barely-audible “uh-huh” into the cushion.

 

JJ toes off her shoes and leaves them by the door before padding quietly over to him, crouching by his head. “Hey,” she whispers, placing a delicate palm on his shoulder, letting him know she’s there. 

 

“Sorry,” Reid mumbles into the pillow. 

 

JJ knows what he means. _Sorry I’m doing this on your day. Sorry you have to take care of me. Sorry I can’t be what’s expected._

 

“You don’t have to worry about any of that, okay? We’re your family.”

 

Her heart echoes with sympathy when she hears a sniff muffled by the cushion and realises he’s crying. She takes a moment to breathe through the overwhelming wave of sadness at the realisation, just crouched silently by his side; he needs her to be strong right now.

 

“Lift your head up a bit, Spence,” she whispers, clearing the tears from her voice. She stands and waits for him to move, and sits on the couch by his head. She expects him to lay his head on her legs, but instead he surges forward suddenly, pressing his face into her stomach as he cries. 

 

“Hey, it’s okay,” she wraps her arms around his head and his shoulders, holding him close. “It’s okay.”

 

“Everything’s changing,” his voice breaks, the sound muted against the top JJ had changed into an hour ago. “S’all gonna _change.”_

 

“It doesn’t have to,” JJ soothes him. 

 

“Emily”—he stutters over a breath—“we just got her back. And you—” he dissolves into tears again, his hands coming up to clutch at JJ. 

 

“I know you’re scared. Spence, I know this is so, so scary for you. But nothing is gonna change, and you know how I know that? Because I love you. And Will and Henry both love you. And Emily? Emily will still love you, even if you don’t get to see her every day. Even if she’s not on the jet with us or sat at the table. We all love you so, so much.”

 

She covers his hands with her own, squeezing tightly when he releases his grip on her top and turns his palms so she can lace her fingers between his. 

 

This is how Morgan finds them half an hour later, silently intertwined on the couch, Reid half-asleep and JJ just watching the slow rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes. 

 

“We good?” he pitches his voice low, his eyes flicking between JJ and the back of Reid’s head. 

 

“We’re good,” JJ nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took so long!! To write!! Because of a whole bunch of reasons!! I can only apologise y'all
> 
> I officially have the rest of this series planned out ~~and have written parts of the next eight chapters~~. It's looking like it's gonna be around 20ish chapters?? Maybe?? If all goes to plan, anyway. 
> 
> Also, shameless plug for my tumblr @radiboyn, where I do CM art now, apparently. So go check that out!!


	12. 2012

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reid has some trouble with the local police while on a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains the r-slur and some pretty blatant ableism.

Pulling into the parking lot of the hotel, Rossi lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. 

 

It has been an unfathomably long day. The town they’re in is small (small enough that he has to share a hotel room with Reid and oh joy, he thinks, that’s always fun), and the ‘we don’t want no FBI’ attitude of… just about every officer Rossi has encountered hangs in the air like a thick fog. By the end of the day, he’s grateful to just be away from the toxic air of the police station, even if that doesn’t mean spending the night in solitary like he wants. 

 

He takes the elevator up to his room on the second floor, his phone pinging with a text from Blake that tells him Reid had retired to the room an hour ago, and to expect him there.

 

Right enough, Rossi spots Spencer as soon as he opens the hotel room door. He’s sat cross-legged in the middle of his bed, already dressed in his sleep clothes, his hair obscuring his face. In his hands is a box puzzle that he’s intently focused on. 

 

“Hello, Spencer,” Rossi greets him warmly. 

 

“Hello Spencer,” Reid repeats immediately, frowning down at the puzzle in his hands. He doesn’t look up at Rossi, but Rossi isn’t surprised. He smiles fondly at the somewhat endearing greeting.

 

He peels off his jacket and sets it down on the back of the chair. “Did you have a good day?” 

 

“Did you have a good day?” Reid echoes, his eyebrows furrowing as he gives himself extra time to process the question. “I had a good day.”

 

“That’s good,” Rossi says lightly, though he can’t be sure whether Reid’s answer is true, or whether he’s simply saying what he thinks Rossi expects him to say. 

 

The puzzle in Reid’s hands clicks, and Rossi laughs at the small gasp that sounds from Reid in response. The puzzle itself had been a gift from JJ two Christmases ago, and, to Rossi’s knowledge, Reid is still working on solving it. He smiles at the memory of Reid very quickly retracting his initial statement that he’d have it solved in minutes, once the puzzle had rejected his first attempts at being solved. The young genius had spent the rest of the team Christmas party curled up in the corner of Garcia’s couch, transfixed by the seemingly impossible task. 

 

Rossi picks up his wash bag and nods to the door of the ensuite. “Mind if I take the shower?”

 

Reid frowns again, and Rossi realises the ambiguous wording too late— _take the shower where?_ —but he eventually nods distractedly and says, “go ahead.”

 

* * *

 

When Rossi emerges from the bathroom twenty minutes later, the puzzle is lying abandoned on the bedsheets, Reid glaring at it with such intensity that Rossi wouldn’t be surprised if it were to spontaneously combust. 

 

“Still no closer to solving it?” Rossi quips lightly.

 

Reid gives no sign of having heard. The older agent frowns slightly, concern creeping in that this may be about more than just the puzzle. 

 

He pauses, watching Reid for a moment. “Is everything okay?” 

 

Silence. Reid’s gaze remains fixed. 

 

Rossi waits a few moments before he continues going about his evening with a renewed quietness to his actions, not wanting to disturb or annoy Reid. He’s not sure if this… _whatever it is_ is something he should be concerned about or not; he’s never seen this behaviour in their youngest agent before. 

 

He folds his socks into a pair and chucks them absently into his open go-bag, and then drapes his smart pants and shirt over the back of the chair where his jacket already lies. 

 

“Who’s the retard?”

 

Rossi freezes. His blood reflexively runs cold at the word. He turns to face Reid, who is still stock still, glaring at the same spot on the bed, his expression cold. 

 

“Excuse me?” 

 

“Who’s the retard?” Reid repeats immediately. 

 

Rossi rapidly runs through the situation in his mind, trying to catch up and work out what he could possibly have missed. But before can come up with something to say, Reid launches himself off the bed and begins pacing up and down the room, his hands not quite flapping at chest height, his fingers shaking and interlocking before untangling and repeating the process. 

 

“Did something happen at the precinct?” Rossi asks, stepping back to let Reid pace the path he wants. He wracks his brain to remember who Hotch had left at the precinct with Reid, and thinks it must have been Blake, but their newest agent hadn’t mentioned anything troubling when they’d last spoken. 

 

_“No,”_ Reid whines, shaking his head back and forth quickly. Rossi watches on with concern as Reid’s distress levels rise rapidly, the pacing quickening, his hands moving to pull at the collar of his t-shirt. 

 

He feels the uneasy sinking in his gut that accompanies the realisation that Reid is just going to have to suffer through another meltdown before this ends. There’s no quick fix, nothing he can do to distract Reid’s genius brain. 

 

“Alright, Spencer.” He perches on the edge of the bed and makes his posture non-threatening. “It’s okay.”

 

“No,” Reid repeats, anger flaring in his eyes. 

 

He abruptly halts his pacing and stops by the window, a frustrated growl leaving his throat. Alarm bells sound in Rossi’s head, and he instinctively stands just in time to stop Reid throwing a punch at the wall. 

 

“Spencer. Sit down,” he says gently.

 

Spencer jerks away, nearly tumbling over. “Move it, freak show!”

 

“Reid—”

 

“Get him out of my station!”

 

“Kid, calm down—”

 

“I said out! Move it!”

 

“Spencer—”

 

Reid suddenly bursts into tears, his hands flying up to cover his ears. 

 

Rossi feels his heart break at the sight. He knows, deep down, that the words Reid had been yelling in his face moments before were repeated, knows that somebody must have said the same things for Reid to repeat back. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

 

“Reid. Come on, let’s sit down and talk about it.” 

 

Reid’s hands move from his ears to his eyes, wiping the tears away even as fresh tears take their place. He scrambles onto the bed and resumes his position cross-legged in the centre of it, hunched over in a protective position. 

 

“There. Just breathe,” Rossi soothes, rooting through the pockets of his jacket on the chair to find his phone. “I’m going to call Hotch. We need to talk about this. You just do you, kid. Just relax.”

 

Stepping outside, Rossi decides a text will be quicker; Hotch will expect details in a call that Rossi would rather he saw for himself. He pulls up the messenger and fires off a text:

 

**_ROSSI:_ ** _Hotch. Room 106, asap. Problem with SR._

 

Within seconds, he has a reply. 

 

**_HOTCH:_** _What’s wrong?_

 

**_ROSSI:_** _Problem at precinct._

 

“Dave,” Hotch calls as he leaves the elevator, spotting Rossi stood outside his and Reid’s shared room. “What’s going on?”

 

“He’s upset,” Rossi says immediately, holding up a hand to silence the questions he knows will come. “He didn’t say much, but I think he’s been made to feel less than welcome by the town.”

 

They open the door as quietly as possible, re-joining Reid in the room. The younger agent is still hunched over in the middle of the bed, where Rossi had left him. He rocks himself back and forth steadily, his hair hanging in front of his face. 

 

“Hotch is here, Reid,” Rossi says quietly, stepping aside to let the unit chief take the lead. 

 

Hotch perches on the end of Rossi’s bed, his movements purposefully slow and quiet. “Reid. Did something happen at the station today? Something that upset you?” he asks gently. 

 

Reid nods, sniffing. 

 

“You said ‘get out of my station’,” Rossi says slowly, looking sidelong at Hotch. 

 

Hotch frowns. “Did Chief Owens tell you that?” 

 

Whining, Reid nods again. A hand snakes into his hair and grips tight. 

 

“It’s okay,” Hotch reassures him. “It’s alright, you’re not in trouble.”

 

Reid’s other hand mimes putting something over his ear, and it takes Hotch a split second to work out that he’s attempting to sign _’headphones’_. He mouths the word at Rossi, who spots them on the floor next to Reid’s go-bag and picks them up, handing them to the younger man. 

 

But Reid shakes his head, tears landing on his legs, and puts the headphones on the bed next to him. 

 

Hotch frowns, but then it clicks. Reid had been wearing his headphones on the jet as they’d arrived and, as far as the unit chief is aware, hadn’t taken them off even as they’d arrived at the precinct. Hotch blows out a long breath, calming the sudden anger that takes over at the thought of Reid being a target of such blatant bullying even after so many years working for the bureau. 

 

“I’m sorry that he said that,” Hotch says gently. “He won’t be allowed to get away with it.”

 

Reid doesn’t reply to that; at a guess, Rossi imagines that Reid must be feeling angry, guilty and embarrassed, and he saddens at the thought of the young agent trying to deal with it alone by resigning himself to his hotel room so early. 

 

“Back to Quantico,” Reid breathes suddenly, swiping a tired hand over his tear-streaked face. “After the case, go back to Quantico.”

 

“We’ll go back to Quantico,” Rossi confirms, nodding. 

 

“On the jet,” Reid’s face crumples, a fresh wave of tears streaming down his cheeks. “Go back to Quantico on the jet.” 

 

Rossi has never seen Reid talking himself through a meltdown before; he wonders if this is how he deals with it when he’s alone at home, when he doesn’t have someone by his side to help him through it. 

 

“Would you like me to write down the plan?” Hotch asks, reasoning that it might be helpful for Reid to have a visual reminder of what to expect over the coming days. 

 

“JJ?” Reid croaks instead, wiping his face with his sleeve. 

 

“You want JJ to write it down?”

 

Reid shakes his head, his lower lip quivering over the weak stream of tears that doesn’t seem to be showing any sign of stopping. “At work. Work with JJ?”

 

“You want to work with JJ?”

 

Reid nods, screwing his eyes shut. “Work with JJ, go b-back to Quantico on the j-jet,” he stammers. 

 

“If that’s what you want,” Hotch says evenly. 

 

Reid nods again, running the backs of his index and middle fingers across the underside of his chin, going against the grain of the two-day stubble growing there. The tears finally, finally seem to be slowing as the rush of emotions gives way to exhaustion. 

 

“I need to speak to Alex,” Hotch announces eventually, once he’s satisfied Reid is starting to calm. He turns to Rossi. “Will you be okay on your own?”

 

“Okay,” Reid sniffs, nodding, answering for them. He shuffles backwards on the bed and pulls the overs over his legs, settling down to rest. 

 

Once the door is shut behind him, Hotch sends a text to Blake notifying her he’s on his way.

 

* * *

 

“Hotch,” Blake opens the door as soon as he knocks, stepping aside to let him in. “Is everything okay?”

 

“I need to ask about Reid,” Hotch says, wasting no time on pleasantries. “He… told me something happened at the station, but couldn’t give me details. I was wondering if you saw anything.”

 

Blake’s expression hardens. She gestures for Hotch to sit in the armchair across from the bed. 

 

“He was having some trouble with the local detectives,” she starts. 

 

_“He retarded or something?”_

_Blake nearly drops her coffee, her eyebrows raising. She follows the detective’s gaze and spots Reid with his back to them both, tracing routes along the wall map with his index finger, his blue noise-cancelling headphones covering his ears. “Excuse me?”_

_“Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t got nothing against it,” the detective—O’Donoghue—continues, holding his hands up in surrender, “but Chief Owens might. He promised this town we’d be getting the best of the best to work this case. I don’t think this”—he gestures towards Reid’s back—“is what we need.”_

_“Dr Reid is an asset to this unit,” Blake defends him, subconsciously positioning herself between Reid and the detective as she turns to walk away. “This town will only trust us if you do.”_

_“Can’t he lose the headphones?” the detective persists. “He looks—”_

_“He’s doing his job,” Blake says firmly. “Let him do it, and we will find your killer.”_

 

“I never expected to encounter such blatant prejudice in the field. These men are supposed to be professionals,” Blake sighs, looking up at Hotch, who has a hard look on his face. 

 

“Did you see what happened between Reid and Chief Owens?” he asks. 

 

Blake shakes her head, concern clouding her features. “I barely saw him all day. He was doing the geo-profile, I just assumed he was busy. Is he alright?” 

 

“He’s fine,” Hotch assures her. “I think he had a run-in with Owens. I won’t know exactly what happened until he can tell me in full.” 

 

“He’s non-verbal?” Blake surmises. 

 

Hotch nods. “Mostly.” It’s a white lie, but a necessary one; he doesn’t feel like giving details about Reid’s current emotional state would be fair on either of them. He stands to leave, thanking Blake for her help as he does. 

 

“I’ll try to keep a closer eye on him tomorrow,” Blake promises.

 

* * *

 

By the time Rossi is pulling into the station parking lot the next day, the rest of the team have been at work for an hour already. Still disorientated and off-track from yesterday evening, Reid had taken longer than usual to prepare to leave the hotel. Rossi had been more than willing to accommodate the slower start, letting Reid do everything he needed in order to be comfortable.

 

He glances over at Reid in the passenger seat. The blue headphones are in his lap, his hands clutching them tightly enough for his knuckles to turn white. He looks pensive, a small frown creasing his brow as he looks out the window, lost in thought. 

 

Rossi doesn’t open his door as soon as they’re parked. Instead, he watches Reid for a moment. Eventually, Reid blinks and turns to him, the focus back in his eyes. 

 

“Still want to work with JJ?” Rossi asks. 

 

Reid nods. He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it quickly, his pale cheeks colouring. 

 

Rossi allows a short moment of sympathy towards their youngest agent. “You know, kid, you don’t have to prove yourself today,” he says quietly. “Just do what you need to do to solve this case.”

 

Reid’s grip on the headphones tightens subconsciously. 

 

Following the younger man into the precinct, Rossi keeps a keen eye on Reid’s reactions. As soon as they’re through the main doors, Reid tenses, but Rossi can’t know if that’s from the sudden barrage of information _(phones ringing, people moving, pictures and maps and statistics pinned to the walls)_ , or if Reid has seen yesterday’s perpetrator. 

 

His question is answered when a burly looking man starts towards them, his eyes fixed on Reid.

 

“I thought I told you to get out. I don’t need a freak like you taking up space in my station.”

 

Rossi moves beside Reid, positioning himself protectively. “Chief Owens, I presume?” 

 

“Don’t you try to stick up for him. There’s no way I’m letting him work my case. What the hell did the FBI think they were doing, sending someone like him?” 

 

“This stopped being ‘your’ case when the killer crossed state lines, chief. I thought you would have known that. Or do I need to explain the meaning of ‘federal jurisdiction’ to you?”

 

Rossi knows he’s hit the nail on the head as soon as the words leave his mouth; insulting the chief’s intelligence seems to have taken him down a notch. 

 

“I’ll get you all kicked out. All of you. We don’t need this.”

 

“Yes, you do,” Rossi drawls. “You’re out of your depth, chief. You couldn’t solve this case if you had all the evidence in the world laid out in front of you— that’s why our team, why _Dr. Reid,_ is here. 

 

“You ain’t shit, you’re not even the one in charge of your team.”

 

“No, I am,” Hotch’s voice appears behind them suddenly. Rossi turns around and oh boy, he thinks, I would not like to be on the receiving end of that look. 

 

“If you have a problem with one of my agents, then you’re welcome to make a complaint to me. But you will not harass my agents while they’re working a case.”

 

Faced with authority, the chief flounders, clearly out of his depth facing Hotch down. 

 

Hotch turns to Reid and Rossi, scanning Reid for signs of distress subtly. “Dr. Reid, Agent Rossi. JJ has a lead for you.”

 

Rossi takes the dismissal for what it is; as much as he’d like a full-blown argument with Chief Owens, he has professionalism to maintain and a case to work. “Of course. Spencer,” he gestures towards the room where JJ is working and follows Reid as he ambles unsteadily towards it. 

 

“You guys okay?” JJ says as soon as they shut the door behind them. 

 

“We’re fine,” Rossi nods. 

 

JJ looks at Reid. “Spence?” 

 

Reid looks up, his headphones still clutched in his hands. He clears his throat and nods once, then again, more confidently. “Yeah,” he whispers, voice scratchy, before he turns to Rossi, a small smile on his lips. “Thank you.”

 

“Any time, kid,” Rossi claps him on the back. “Any time.”


	13. 2013 - 08.12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Zugzwang, part one.

 

The first shot that rings out has them charging up the stairs, taking them two at a time, guns drawn and hearts in their throats.

 

The second shot is almost paralysing.

 

To see Reid mobile when they reach the top—telling them to stay back, his hand clutching tightly at his upper arm—provides momentary relief, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, they're all getting out of this alive. 

 

Until the third and final shot sounds. 

 

Hotch squeezes his eyes shut in a flinch at the loud noise that still makes his ears throb. He opens them just in time to see Reid fling both his hands upwards, covering his ears, his body curling inwards. The noise that escapes him is best described as feral. It tears from his throat like a guttural cry, somewhere between a scream and a sob. 

 

Hotch lurches forward, holstering his gun, every protective instinct in him on fire with the need to get to Reid and stop that horrible sound coming from him. 

 

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you,” he repeats, his hands finding Reid’s shoulders and pulling him close. Reid doesn’t fight to get away. He keeps his hands pressed over his ears and sobs painfully into the unit chief's chest. 

 

“Aaron. Get him out of here,” Rossi appears at his side, speaking lowly. Hotch nods. 

 

Hotch knows there’s little point in using words to communicate with Reid. The horrified wailing has dampened down to a persistent keening that drowns out all external sounds, and Reid still has his hands pressed firmly over his ears. He’s smearing blood from his arm over the side of his face, and Hotch winces. 

 

He straightens up and waits for Reid to righten his own posture before using a firm hand on the younger man's shoulder to guide him out of the room. The intensity of the keening increases when he catches sight of Maeve’s body cooling on the floor, and he squeezes his eyes shut again. Hotch simply uses the firmness of the pressure against his shoulder to direct him towards the door and down the stairs. 

 

The moment they’re outside, Reid’s knees buckle. Hotch catches him swiftly, taking most of his weight. A medic appears at his side and supports Reid with an arm under his shoulders, calling over for assistance and a gurney. 

 

Reid screeches at the contact, but Hotch knows he’s too weak, too shaky from adrenaline and shock, to try to escape. He keeps up a steady shushing sound, hoping the white noise will go some way to comforting Reid. 

 

“He was shot in the arm,” Hotch relays to the medics as he helps them seat Reid upright on the gurney. “He’s probably in shock. And he’s overwhelmed. Please, no more people than needed, and nothing unnecessarily invasive.” 

 

The medics seem to take the hint pretty quickly. They wheel the trolley into the back of the van, waiting for Hotch to jump in before closing the doors thankfully quietly. 

 

In the quieter environment, Reid peels his hands away from his ears, flexing his fingers. A panicked hum catches in his throat as he stares at the blood caking the fingers of his right hand, drying between the cracks. 

 

“You’re okay,” Hotch reassures quickly. “We’re gonna get you patched up, and then you’re going home. You won’t be alone. It’s alright.” 

 

The medics begin to work on Reid’s arm, working around the continuous flinches and whines. At some point, Reid shoves his fingers into his mouth and bites down hard, breathing heavily around the digits, and Hotch doesn’t have the heart to tell him to stop. 

 

One of the medics gestures to the corner of the ambulance away from Reid, and Hotch stands and joins him. 

 

“His arm won’t need to be treated in a hospital right away. I get the impression that’s not where he needs to be. My colleague and I will give you some space to get him cleaned up—we’ll give you some supplies— and then you’re welcome to take him home. The dressing will need to be changed by a doctor in the next couple of days.”

 

“Thank you,” Hotch says sincerely. He steps aside and waits for the two medics to jump out the back of the van and pull the doors to before he turns back to Reid. 

 

The younger man has his legs drawn up to his chest, his face buried in his knees. His hands are tucked up against his head, his fingers shaking. “Hey,” Hotch says, settling on the fold-down chair next to him. He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls the sleeves up to his elbows. “It’s just me and you now.”

 

Hotch reaches out and takes Reid’s right hand gently. When he tries to tug it free, Reid fights it. 

 

“Spencer,” Hotch says quietly. “Please.” He tugs on the hand again, and breathes a sigh of relief when Reid relents. Hotch reaches behind himself with one hand to take the flannel and bowl of warm water the medics had left him. Slowly and gently, he begins to wipe some of the blood from between Reid’s fingers, periodically rinsing the flannel, watching as the water turns pink. 

 

“I’m so sorry, Reid,” he says quietly as he works. “I’m sorry you had to see that happen, and I’m sorry you got hurt. You’re not alone, now.”

 

If Hotch didn’t know any better, he might have thought that Reid had fallen asleep sitting up, but he knows that isn’t what’s happened. The tension that had been radiating from the young man in waves seems to have been washed away with the blood on his hands. When Hotch taps Reid’s temple and murmurs “head up for a second,”, the eyes that meet his are filled with exhaustion. _Haunted,_ Hotch thinks. His eyes look haunted. 

 

He finishes wiping the blood from the side of Reid’s face and discards the flannel before pouring the water down the on-board sink. Tired eyes track his movements. When he turns back to Reid, the young man blinks up at him, his knees still drawn up to his chest. 

 

“I’ll be back in one minute,” Hotch informs him, waiting a moment for a nod from Reid. When it comes, he pushes open the ambulance doors and steps out. His eyes scan the crowds of people—crime scene investigators, medics, other agents—in search of his team. 

 

“Hotch,” he hears Morgan’s voice behind him, and turns on his heel to spot the other agent coming towards him. “How is he?”

 

Aaron shakes his head, a small, grave movement. He looks across the swathes of people and sees Blake and JJ talking to each other, their expressions pained. “Drained,” he says quietly, the single word expressing everything he needs to say. “He can’t be alone tonight.”

 

Morgan nods. Throughout his career, he’s seen heartbreak and pain and fear, but it’s never felt like this. “I’ll take him home, Hotch. Rossi’s handling things here.”

 

“Thank you,” Aaron says sincerely. He knows that support from his friends will be the only way Reid will pull through this.

 

* * *

 

The drive back to Reid’s apartment is quiet. Morgan contemplates taking Reid to stay with him, but he ultimately decides the familiar surroundings of his own home will be most comforting for the younger man. 

 

Spencer spends the entire journey slumped silently in the passenger seat, his head back against the headrest, his eyelids drooping with exhaustion. He screws his eyes closed periodically, as if physically shielding himself from memories he doesn’t want to see. Morgan knows his mind must be working a million miles a minute, trying to piece everything together. It’s going to be a while before Reid has processed this. The thought breaks his heart. 

 

Neither of them say anything as Morgan pulls into the guest parking space and shuts off the car’s engine. Reid opens his door robotically and climbs out. When he hovers next to the door instead of making his way inside, Morgan raises questioning brows at him. 

 

“I didn’t…” Reid starts, his voice scratchy, like it hasn’t been used in weeks. He licks his lips and screws his eyes shut, turning his head towards his shoulder. “Bag,” he says quietly. “Keys.”

 

Even with Reid limited to holophrastic speech, Morgan gets the message. “Your bag is in the trunk, pretty boy. Let me get it.” 

 

Morgan retrieves Reid’s messenger bag and his own go-bag, carrying both to the entrance of Reid’s building when the other man leads the way, moving on autopilot. When they reach Reid’s floor, Morgan takes Reid’s keys from his bag and unlocks his door, pausing to allow the young man to step inside. 

 

“Go and get ready for bed,” Morgan says gently, using the same tone he’d use with a scared child, as he drops his go-bag at the door and flips on the lights. He’s experienced enough with victims in shock to know what to do now, the guidelines engrained in his memory. _Slow movements, soft voice, simple instructions._ “I’m going to be right here.”

 

Morgan waits for Reid to move on shaky legs to his bedroom before he moves himself. He checks Reid’s kitchen cupboards and refrigerator for supplies, knowing he’ll probably need to go grocery shopping for him at some point in the next few days. He’s unsurprised to find them mostly empty, save for a few cartons of jello and some plain-looking microwave meals. 

 

After fifteen minutes of pottering around Reid’s apartment and preparing the couch for himself to sleep on, Morgan feels the beginnings of concern creeping in. He pauses, listening carefully for any signs of movement coming from Reid’s room, but he’s met by an eerie quiet.

 

“Reid?” he calls. When he gets no response, he goes to Reid’s bedroom door and knocks twice. “I’m coming in, kid,” he warns. 

 

Morgan’s heart breaks anew when he pushes the door open and spots his best friend. Reid is stood facing the door with silent tears streaming down his face, his expression one of pure anguish. 

 

“Can’t… work it out,” he whispers brokenly, sad eyes finding Morgan’s. “I don’t know what to do.” 

 

“Let me help?” Morgan asks, already stepping forward. He’s taken by surprise when Reid all but collapses against him, his arms coming up to wrap around Morgan’s waist as he buries his face in the older man’s shoulder. “Hey, hey, I got you,” Morgan whispers. Strong arms wrap around skinny shoulders, holding him close. 

 

“Sorry,” Reid gasps against his shoulder.

 

Morgan has to blink away tears of his own. "Don't, kid."

 

They stand like that for ten minutes, Morgan rocking Reid slightly from side to side. Slowly, the tears dry up, until Reid is almost boneless in Morgan’s arms, his weight sagging against him. 

 

“Let’s get you into bed,” Morgan whispers eventually, giving Reid a final firm squeeze before depositing him on the edge of his bed. He looks around and locates the night clothes Reid had retrieved for himself. “Can you get yourself dressed?”

 

Reid nods, but it becomes apparent pretty quickly that the answer is no. Morgan watches for a few moments as Reid struggles to put the steps required to get out of his day clothes into action, and intervenes when fresh tears form in Reid’s eyes and threaten to spill over. 

 

He steps in and unbuttons Reid’s dark shirt, pulling it off his skinny frame and discarding it on the floor. It’ll need to go in the trash, Morgan thinks as he notes the square-shaped hole the medics had cut in the arm. “Don’t worry about it, kid,” he reassures when Reid makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “You don’t have to do anything right now. Just relax.”

 

It takes Morgan five minutes to fully prepare Reid for sleep. He finds the most comfortable looking pyjamas he can and helps the younger man into them, ignoring the twang in his chest at how much younger he looks in the clothing. Reid cooperates the whole time, allowing himself to be manhandled at Morgan’s will, his shoulders drooping with exhaustion. 

 

Morgan steps into Reid’s small bathroom, taking the tumbler from the counter and filling it with tap water. When he returns, Reid is sat on the edge of his bed, staring down at the shaking hand he has held in front of him with a crease between his brows and slightly parted lips. 

 

“That’s the adrenaline. It’s normal to be a little shaky for a while,” Morgan reminds him gently. He holds out the glass. “Drink this, and then it’s time to get some rest.”

 

Reid dutifully takes the beaker from Morgan and drains its contents without protest, his shaky hands making the surface of the liquid ripple as he does. He hands it back to Morgan silently, his eyelids drooping. 

 

“Into bed,” Morgan prompts once he’s rinsed the glass and placed it back in the bathroom. Reid slips under his covers, his eyes already closed as his head hits the pillow. “Do you want me to set an alarm for tomorrow?” Morgan asks.

 

Reid heaves a sigh, his eyes barely opening, the gaze that meets Morgan’s glazed over and unfocused. After a moment, he shakes his head against the pillow, his eyes falling shut again. By the time Morgan has tucked the comforter around him properly and switched off his light, the genius is already fast asleep, the fatigue and shock and stress finally catching up to him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... isn't what I intended to write. As such, I'll (probably) post a 'part two' for this episode, detailing the angrier but no less raw response he has in episodes like 08.17. 
> 
> I really hope I did this justice. I was really worried about writing this chapter! It's been through a million rewrites.
> 
> Also, I completely intentionally ignored the canon layout of Reid's apartment in this. Apologies if it doesn't match up with what you've imagined!

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are much appreciated :)


End file.
